


Live a Life or Die Trying

by esama



Series: Ode to the Future Found [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Blood Drinking, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: There's someone in Dracula's Castle who does not belong there





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge, many thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> [Background music; Hellsing OST RAID track 17: Requiem for the Living](https://youtu.be/Qn3r_Mi7CZg)

It's a testament to the all consuming power of his sorrow, how it fills all his thoughts and consumes his every waking moment, that Dracula doesn't notice that he is no longer alone in his castle until it's been a few days. The castle halls echo empty with distant footsteps and they're not his own – they're too quiet, too faint, had he been human he wouldn't have even heard them.

Somewhere in his castle, in his home, there is someone. There is an _intruder._

And even that barely stirs Dracula. His heart is weary and his mind fickle – he swings from all consuming fury to complete void of emotion and currently all he feels is alone and tired and dead. There is nothing but emptiness in his castle and even the intruder barely concerns him. He had moved the castle, he'd set it on a mountain top, no one should be there to disturb his grief, and yet, and yet…

He feels the places his wife no longer occupies and tries to muster the black hatred that had vowed to slay the world and yet he can barely gather enough strength of will to lift his head. There is someone there, a vampire or a fiend, intruding upon his house, and he cares not.

She is dead, she is dead, she is dead, like ticking of a clock, like beat of his heart, she is dead and he cares nor at all because she is _dead…_

And then a stray bit of draft carries a scent to him and like spark thrown into oiled hay, he's aflame and alive with _fury_.

It's a _human_. There is a _human man_ in his castle!

Like the ones that killed her!

The chair he has sat upon – for hours, days, has it been weeks now – is thrown back as Dracula flies to his feet, tearing out of the chambers where they'd worked together, where he'd taught her. Outside the halls are empty and cold, all light and warmth having gone out of the castle with her, and the fact that the intruder had not lit the place infuriates him more for robbing him of the cause for further outrage.

The intruder is difficult to trace – Dracula can sense his lingering scent, but there's no visible signs of his passing, no mark laid upon the dust, no footprints on the floors or stairs. The intruder had moved about extensively, and he never knew – even now Dracula can barely sense him, and then he cannot sense the intruder at all, the hint of a presence fading into the shadows.

"Come out, Hunter!" Dracula roars at the castle. "Come out and face me if you dare! I have cut down thousands of your kind, you won't be any different!"

The words echo restlessly of the walls and fade like the footsteps had.

"If you think alone you may quell my revenge upon your wretched species, you are mistaken!" Dracula calls. "But why should I be surprised by this? I give you mercy, I give you time to repent and for this crime of kindness you turn your blades on me! One year I gave you, and mere two months in you spent your chances? How utterly typical of humans."

No answer, while he scans the walls and expands his senses. The lingering scent is all there is, and with a snarl Dracula turns to follow it, trace it through the corridors the intruder had passed through and back to its source, calling all the while, hoping to catch a breath, a scrape of boot sole on floor tiles, any sound of alarm that might give the intruder away. However distant it would be, inside his castle he would hear it. Only there is nothing, even his promises to tear the lifeblood out of the man's writhing body gives him no reaction.

Either the intruder is very good, the best of hunters, one bar the level of _a Belmont_... or he's no longer in the castle at all.

Gripping the edges of his cape in ever growing frustration, Dracula turns to the balconies, and steps out.

Outside the wind tears at him harsh enough to nearly cut.

He'd thrown his castle far, in his anger and sorrow, so far and so remote that even the most curious vampire could not get to it to disturb his mourning. On the highest peak of the mountains of Făgăraș, it's as inhospitable a place as could be found in the region, and the fact that any Hunter could not only find it but reach it is almost impressive. Dracula almost has to commend the man on it.

He'd preserve the Hunter's body once he was done with him – should his plans of recruiting Forge Masters come to fruition, perhaps they could make something useful with the man's wretched corpse.

He only needs to find the damned Hunter first.

Swiftly moving over the balconies and ledges of his castle, Dracula tracks the wind and the shift of ice crystals, until he finds the one wind break which doesn't belong. There, on one of the lower balconies, a sliver of human warmth in the icy waste.

Landing behind him silently, Dracula prepares to cut the man down, spill his blood on the virgin snow and forever mark this mountain with the man's death… but first he wants to see what kind of mortal would scale frozen mountains just to kill him.

The human is… quite obviously not a hunter. He bears none of the tools or armour of one, and Dracula can't sense so much as a cross on him. No Holy water, no salt, no garlic, nothing. Most this man has is a knife strapped to his waist – not silver – and some hidden weapon at his wrist – which also does not feel like silver. He isn't even dressed for the weather – the man doesn't even have a proper coat, just a hooded tunic, too thin to block out the wind. At these temperatures he should be freezing.

The human man mutters something in a language Dracula can't immediately place. English – spoken loosely in a strange accent. "Well, shit. That's a no on walking out of here, then."

He's not talking to Dracula – he does not even know he has a vampire looming behind him. Dracula could kill him with one blow, but the man is only scanning the mountains, not making any violent moves, only sighing and leaning onto the snow covered baluster, eyeing the scenery.

"Well, at least it's pretty," the man muses to himself.

How defenceless and calm the man is makes Dracula hesitate, for reasons he can't quite articulate. This human, whoever he is and however he got here, bears no ill intent that Dracula can sense – he only seems a little resigned and ultimately calm in the face of the frozen landscape.

It makes Dracula think of time when he and his wife travelled together in a cart with a horse, and had gotten stuck in a bog. The horse had almost drowned and all their clothes had been soiled, the whole experience had been miserable… And then Lisa had stood on the cart and looked over the wretched swamp and laughed.

_"Well, at least it's a lovely spot of land we got ourselves stuck in."_

Dracula hadn't been able to see anything lovely about the place, not until she pointed him the swamp flowers and all the birds and animals that lived there, and they spent the time waiting for the horse to recover to gather herbs. They'd eaten their dinner with their boots waterlogged with swamp muck, and she's tasted like wilderness when she'd kissed him. He'd still not seen how it was lovely – but she had been.

Now he can't see anything _pretty_ about the desolate mountain range, all it is is cold and windy and lifeless… And yet the human man sighs wistfully, like it's something to be taken in and enjoyed, staring at the jagged peaks like he's trying to memorise the sight.

Dracula's hand lowers – and when the cold finally becomes too much for the human man and he turns to return to the castle, the vampire is gone, hidden among the castle spires – watching warily as the man heads back into his castle and meticulously closes the balcony doors behind him.

* * *

 

The human had came through a portal. Dracula finds it while the human wanders around his halls, lost in the maze that is Dracula's Castle. Now that Dracula knows he's there, he can keep an eye on the man through his mirrors – he's surprised to find that the man neither seeks to do any damage to his home, nor does he attempt to steal anything. While the human searches for whatever it is he's searching, Dracula examines the portal.

It had left marks upon its opening but the signs are quick to fade away. An one-way sending, or perhaps a banishment, to his castle from parts unknown. Had it been an accident, an attack launched too soon, or had someone sent the man intentionally to his doom? Whichever it is doesn't matter now – out there, there is someone with the power to open portals to his normally sealed castle.

The human doesn't act like he's expecting company – or a rescue. And yet he didn't behave like a man doomed either – though his wandering is slow, it's determined also – the man is searching for something.

A pantry, it turns out.

"Oh, hell, yes," the man sighs, breaking into the kitchen and then the food stores. They've been sitting abandoned for some time now - like the castle itself. For years now the castle has been vacant, as Dracula had chased the mirage of living the life of a man and a husband - rather than a vampire lord. Still, there are some things which have kept in sealed containers, which the human intruder is quick to find among those which had not kept.

Watching through his mirrors, Dracula hums a the man makes a meal of it, firing up the ovens, grabbing the skillets and pans and seeing to his own meal. It's interesting, the small things he does that give him away.

The human is not surprised by the sink with its running water and sophisticated drain – in fact, he uses it without a second thought to wash his hands, as if expecting running water as a natural part of a castle such as this - rather than the wonder of engineering it is. He doesn't seem to have any issues with it. Even the gas canister beneath the stove gives him little trouble – he figures out the valves quickly and seems only satisfied when he manages to light the stove. Not much after that, he has rice boiling away on the top.

He knows the sciences of the immortals – he has used such tools before. Yet he does not act as though a servant from one of the great houses – and who would keep a human servant anyway, among their kind? Who but him – for Lisa and for Alucard he'd sought a human cook, now a lifetime ago…

This man was never in his employ though. And he cooks and eats the food as though he owns it – not as though he's making it for his lord and then stealing from him. Peculiar.

He's clean, for a human. Neat. His hair is cut short and his cheeks were probably shaven before he was stranded. He eats well with utensils and makes no mess – and after his meal he washes the dishes and pots he used and puts them away, leaving the kitchen slightly cleaner than he found it. He washes his hands again, practiced and thorough and completely thoughtless.

Lisa, when he'd taught her of bacteria and what causes infections, begun to wash her hands more often. Already a neat and clean woman, she made washing her hands something of a ceremony, doing it with care and attention, making it a point to teach the practice to others. What this man does is completely the opposite – he doesn't think about it at all, doesn't for a moment stop to consider if he should, if he wanted to, if he needed to. Rather he does it as if it's a habit, an unconscious tick. Touch water: rinse your hands.

Like Alucard, raised on the habit, taught to be careful with his hygiene from before he could even speak.

Grim and unsettled and curious, Dracula waits and watches, waiting to see if other portals would be opened – but there are none. The signs of the one that brought him his unexpected guest fades, and after his meal the human wanders on again, setting out as if to map out the castle. That, Dracula thinks, is too much.

Time to put an end to this.

* * *

 

His melancholia rearing again, Dracula approaches his intruder not with rage or fury, but by quietly walking over to him. He catches the human while the man is sitting by some windows, staring outside with a bottle of wine in hand. Here, it seems, is the man's humanity with all of it's lack of grace showing itself – he drinks from the bottle, like a common ruffian. Decent table manners or not, he's certainly no nobility.

"Not only did you raid my pantry, but my wine cellar too?" Dracula asks, and feels a fading spark of amusement as the human flails and almost drops the bottle. "You have no decency, do you?"

"Shit, I thought I was alone here," the man says, starting at him as if he had materialised from thin air – perhaps from his perspective, Dracula had. He stands up. "Is this your place?"

"My rightful place, yes," Dracula agrees, considering him. No fear, no recognition. Hmm. "Who are you? How did you get into this castle?"

"Uh," the human answers, eloquent. "Well. My name is Desmond Miles and I'm not really… sure? Um, sorry about raiding your pantry – I was about to keel over in hunger."

Keel over – like a boat? "And where do you come from, Desmond Miles?"

The human man is looking a little uncomfortable now, considering him in turn, lowering the bottle he's holding to the table. "Okay, listen – I don't want any trouble, I didn't mean to break in, and if this castle wasn't like on the top of the freaking Himalayas, I would've already left. And I wouldn't have stolen your food, except I was about to start starving."

Humans. Always with the excuses. "I see," Dracula says. "You didn't answer my question. Where do you come from?"

The man eyes him early. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I don't even know where we are, for that matter. Where are we?"

Dracula narrows his eyes. "We are in the mountains of Făgăraș," he says.

Desmond Miles considers that for a moment. "Yeah, I have no idea where that is," he says then.

Dracula's brow arches. "Carpathian mountains then?"

The man frowns. "Okay that one is vaguely familiar. Um. That's somewhere in Romania, right?"

Dracula pauses at that curiously, taking another, closer look at him. "Wallachia."

"What?"

"The land you are in is known as Wallachia," Dracula says and steps closer. "I believe it will not be called Romania in quite some time. Are you a scryer, Desmond Miles?"

The man eyes him dubiously. "A what?"

"A seer, an oracle – a fortune teller." It might explain the man's knowledge of the technology of the immortals – like them, he'd divined the knowledge from behind the veil. Or else, his master did. "You seem to have knowledge of things that have not yet come to pass."

For a moment Desmond Miles says nothing, taking him in with greater interest now, obviously trying to make sense of things. "You seem to know something yourself," he says then slowly. "And don't think I didn't notice you not introducing yourself."

"You invited yourself into my presence of your own volition, I was under the impression you already knew who I am."

The man gives him a look, and feeling the corner of his mouth curl – and his teeth ache – Dracula makes a sarcastic bow at him. "You are in the castle of Vlad Dracula Ţepeş – in the presence of its lord and master. I am Count Dracula."

The human makes a slight noise at that and Dracula looks up to see his shock or horror or whatever else he might feel before trying to hide it. Which it would be might tell something of his origins – and his expectations.

He doesn't expect arched brows or the laughter. Especially not this kind of laughter – incredulous little burst followed by a bad attempt at seriousness – which is then followed by another snort of badly smothered amusement. Dracula straightens again, glowering at him. The man is actually giggling in the face of an immortal vampire lord.

"What is so amusing?" Dracula demands, as his ire begins to quickly build again.

"Oh my god, you're actually serious," the man snorts and then tries to pull himself together. "Sorry, sorry – I mean it's just that – ahem. Never mind."

Dracula narrows his eyes. "Are you mocking me?" he demands.

"No, no, no, I'm – no," the man says quickly – but the amusement is still there, he cannot stifle it. "No mockery intended – I'm sorry –"

"You have heard of my name before – and not in a genteel company," Dracula says slowly, taking a threatening step closer. "No, I expect there was ridicule, when my name was brought up. Tell me, what sort of fun was made of me and my name, what sort of _jokes_ have you heard?"

Desmond Miles has a sense of self preservation, if nothing else – he knows he is not in a joking sort of company now, and the humour is quickly replaced with readiness, as his eyes grow wary and his knees bend ever so slightly, ready for movement – for flight. "No jokes," he says. "Just some very popular stories – great ones, I swear. People love you."

"People _love_ me?!"

It's as if there is a hurricane inside him, all of a sudden, made of blades and pain and heat – the word echoes in the hollow where Lisa used to be, where her _love_ was supposed to be, and it sounds like the cackling of crows and vultures circling over a corpse, _love, love, love_ –

Only one had ever loved him – he had only ever loved one, only ever loved _once_ , there is no more of that, never more, not for him, and not for this world that stripped that precious joyful thing away from him – there will be no more kindness, no more joy and happiness there will be nothing but void and darkness and _death_ –

The attack is premeditated – Dracula means to kill the man, just for that painful reminder. For a moment he had been distracted, for a moment he had forgotten – and he thinks he is more angry at Desmond for having distracted him at all, for having made him even for a _second_ forget his pain, than he is of the reminder. Still, as much as he _wants_ and _intends_ to kill the man, the moment he delivers the blow he already regrets it – it all happens so fast, too fast for any  human to fight back.

The blow lands, but not on Desmond Miles' neck like intended, not across his chest, no flesh is torn. The blow lands instead against metal under the man's white sleeve, Dracula's claws tearing the fabric asunder, screeching against the bracer the human is wearing. Through the red haze Dracula sees a glint of a blade, sees Desmond Miles' eyes over the tearing sleeve and then the man is knocked down by the force of the blow.

He goes down lower than he needs to, under the blow, onto his knees – there he shifts, bracing his weight on his hands and kicking. It's a fast, fluid attack, it would have knocked a man's feet from under him, but Dracula needs only to jump back and he's out of its reach.

Then Desmond Miles is holding a dagger in his left hand, and has a slender blade extruding from under the wrist of his right hand, and he might not wear the armour and gear of a Vampire Hunter, but every muscle of his body gives away what he is. Perhaps not a Vampire Hunter – but definitely a trained killer.

"What the hell, man?" the human demands. "It was a compliment, and also –" he stops there, taking in Dracula's face and then going fully alert.

The vampire can feel the snarl on his face – can feel the trails of blood, streaking down from his no doubt rage-red eyes. Everything is red and every breath hurts – the loss is a living thing inside him again, and every inhale reminds him that Lisa is gone. The castle doesn't even smell like her anymore – more than anything, he smells Desmond Miles, and who is he to be here, in the place of Dracula's mourning, in the place which had been hers –

"How _dare_ you," the vampire demands. "You steal from me, laugh at me, mock me -"

"Okay, this is some kind of misunderstanding, seriously," Desmond Miles says quickly.

"Don't interrupt me, human!" Dracula snarls and lifts his hands, spreading out his claws. "In my own house! You are an intruder, a would-be-hunter, mortal, wretched _human_! How dare you be here!"

The man in front of him doesn't answer, and the heel of his shoe makes a sound as he shifts his footing. "I'd love to be elsewhere, honest," he says tightly. "Except you're apparently in the middle of a mountain range or whatever, and I forgot to bring my climbing gear –"

"I will send you elsewhere," Dracula wows and sets forward. "I will send you to _hell_."

"Yeah, okay, why not," Desmond Miles says, blowing out a breath as his eyes flash with sudden, murderous intent. "The architecture here sucks anyway. Ever heard of laws of gravity?"

Dracula snarls and launches into an attack.


	2. Chapter 2

The guy probably _hasn't_ heard of the laws of gravity. He definitely doesn't seem to be following them. And had Desmond not confirmed through hunger, thirst, and various other bodily functions that everything is pretty real, he'd be having some serious concerns about the legitimacy of reality right about now.

The guy is flying after him, cape flaring and flapping, teeth bared, face twisted in a grimace, swiping with his actual fingernails like something out of an old movie or a horror show monster. The whole thing would be ludicrous – okay, it _still_ is – if Desmond's hadn't seen and felt what the guy's nails had done to his arm. His hoodie is shredded, and he swears he saw sparks, as in metal hitting metal sparks, when the nails had met the hidden bracer.

Blocking the oncoming attack with his dagger, Desmond is almost knocked on his ass again by the force behind it. The guy doesn't look like he's exerting that much effort – without the nails it would be just a very dramatic slap… except that it comes down on his knife like a hammer blow, rattling his wrist and knocking feeling out of his fingers. The fact that the guy has to be like seven feet tall doesn't really work to Desmond's advantage either.

And he's fast too – while Desmond is trying to recover from the swipe, there's another one already coming, aiming unerringly at centre mass. It's not a very sophisticated attack, technically speaking, Desmond had seen better fighting style in drunks and druggies, but it's _so fast_ that it doesn't need to be. He barely gets his hidden blade in the way in time.

Trying to fight this guy seriously and fairly is going to get him killed. That's a fact.

So fuck that.

Desmond folds under the attacks, disengaging and rolling away as fast as he can. He doesn't have Ezio's and Connor's bombs or throwing knives on him, nothing to throw this guy's way to distract him, all he has is what's on him… and a bottle of wine sitting on the bench.

He sacrifices the bottle, grabbing it and splashing it in the general direction of his attacker's face, and while the ridiculously tall man sputters and snarls at him in outrage, Desmond turns on his heel and runs like hell.

"You coward!" the man roars after him. "You cannot run from me! Face your doom like a man!"

"Rather'd survive like a coward if that's all the same to you –" Desmond answers and then lets out a yelp of alarm as the caped guy flies after him – cape billowing, feet not touching the floor, actual levitation style _flying._

There's like a split of a second to decide what to do – freak out about the flying guy coming at him with claws and fangs, or do something about it. Desmond goes with the latter, looks around, and then jumps out of the way just in time. The floor breaks under the guy's attack, stone cracking, and every shred of Desmond goes _nope, not dealing with that._

So without further thought, he rams his way out through a window and into a freewall down the side of the castle.

Behind him, Dracula howls, "You can't run from me! There's nowhere to go! I will find you, human, and in the name of my love, I will kill you!"

Desmond flips mid air, turning to look up. Dracula is covering the hole he'd made to the window, looking at him, but he's not following. Also apparently not expecting him to die in the fall.

 _Bother,_ Desmond thinks, and falls ass first into the snow.

* * *

 

Dracula is still raging and raving somewhere when Desmond crawls out of the snow and back inside – nowhere else to go, really, on the mountain top. The whole interior of the castle seems to rattle when he enters it – every corner of the place is filled with Dracula's voice.

"Pathetic witless evil filthy humans, with their God and their insipid religions, covering up their own flaws and faults with scripture. _Devil made me do it, and I do it in the name of God_ , indeed," the voice rattles on, not in monologue but frankly impressive dictation – if this was a movie, it would be pretty epic speech. "As if it _forgives_ you, as if it grants you _mercy_ – as if blaming spectres of your own insane imagination for your actions makes them less yours –"

This isn't a movie though – it's all real. As much the guy looked the part, he wasn't acting out scenes from a vampire film, and as much as Desmond wanted to believe it, this wasn't some Animus-based simulation put together to fuck with him. Somehow this is real. Or he'd finally gone completely mad.

His bets are on the former, though – Bleeding Effect rarely reached bodily reactions, and his wrist is still hurting – and he's never gotten snow melting down his shirt in the Animus. And his life is never so simple. So somehow gravity-defying Gothic castle on a mountaintop and an actual vampire lord running it are all real now and part of his life.

Desmond still privately reserves the right to freak out a little.

"Never taking responsibility of your actions, of your insults and offenses," Dracula keeps on going. "You invent God, say this God you invented made you in His image and therefore you are the greatest on land, the perfect organism, and in His name you have the right to the world – but you are nothing, and the world is not yours, no more than its the worm's that crawls under your heel, no more than its the horse's you ride into battle and to its death – you are nothing but evil, entitled worms, thinking you own the world, the _arrogance –_!"

Big on generalisations, this guy. Also kind of terrifying.

Desmond brushes off the melting snow the best he can and then sets out to find something he can use – either fight, hide or just run away, he's not picky, so as long as he survives this shit. He'd seen a lot of weapons and armour just lying around in this place, which he'd not touched – should come in handy now. He doesn't want to think what those claws would do on skin, if he had nothing but his hoodie to defend himself with.

The layout of the castle is still a mess – more of a mess the longer he looks at it, really. A lot of it makes no logical sense – there's corridors and stairs that lead into dead ends, and random ledges have everywhere with no stairs leading to them. Like Hogwarts, if all the stairs and corridors decided to have a party and then ended up having a hangover all over the place. Or maybe like if an omnipotent three year old decided to try his hand in architecture. This place can't even be structurally sound.

So, magic. Probably. Okay.

Desmond scans the corridors with Eagle Vision and goes where it leads him, following the threads of importance around. This place is full of psychic residue – it hangs over everything like a miasma, lighting up invisible footsteps and faded away traces on the wall, and somewhere in the distance he thinks he can hear a woman laughing. Creepy, all of it, creepy as hell.

Eagle Vision leads him to a chamber which isn't so much hidden as it is cut off by accident of insane architecture. With how golden it glows, Desmond hopes to find it full of weaponry, armour, maybe having a paraglide or something hanging around – something which will actually _help him_ while Dracula hunts him. He can feel the guy moving, following him, and there's probably not much time, so… some weaponry would be nice. He'd give almost anything for a satchel of bombs right about now.

Instead he finds what looks like a medieval version of a pillow fort, with toys stuffed to the corner and books and papers flung around, scribbled full of childish drawings. There's a weapon though – a wooden toy sword.

"Seriously?" Desmond asks faintly with disbelief, as the spectral memory of a blond little boy and equally blonde woman shuffle into the fort where she grabs a book as the boy squirms into her lap and –

And then Dracula is upon him in all of his Gothic horror glory.

"There you are, wretch –" the vampire snarls as Desmond turns, the damn wooden sword in hand – just to see Dracula freeze in place and gape at the room behind Desmond in horror.

Then the guy folds like a piece of laundry falling off the clothes line, just collapsing into a pool of his cape, staring at the fort like it had sapped away all his strength.

Desmond hesitates, glancing between the room and the man. Okay… maybe Eagle Vision didn't lead him to his doom after all.

"How did you find this place?" Dracula demands.

"Er," Desmond says and then devices, fuck it – there are already vampires here, why not. "Vision-based psychic ability. I could see the importance of this place across the castle."

"I thought I lost this place when the castle was moved – we looked for it, but could not find it," Dracula murmurs, as his eyes go red and then he's crying blood again. "They used to play here. My wife, my son. Before they killed her. Before he turned against me."

Desmond eyes him warily and then looks at the ghosts of the memory in the pillow fort. He's still getting used to that, Ezio's Eagle Sense, didn't used to have that before, but at least he has Ezio's experience to draw upon. The Sense is getting a lot of practice here

The memory ghosts looked happy, giggling over the story book and telling each other secrets.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Desmond says, turning the toy sword awkwardly in his hand and handing it, handle first, to the vampire lord.

"Excuse me?" Dracula asks, his voice rattling.

"In sorry for your loss. You know, sympathy," Desmond says and shakes the toy sword a bit. "Think this belongs to your kid."

Dracula looks at the thing for a moment, expressionless. His hand looks huge, nails ridiculously long and sharp, closing over the small handle. "A human weapon," the vampire mutters, turning the toy in his hand. "He wanted to fence – like humans do. I forged him a proper sword to learn with – it ended up too long, he could not even draw it by hand."

Desmond imagines the blond kid trying to draw a sword longer than him and smothers a grin. "Sounds cute," he says.

"He tried to cut me down with it," Dracula mutters, his grip on the toy sword tightening. "The sword I made for him, he tried to fight me with it. So I cut him down instead."

"... Okay, that's less cute," Desmond says, a bit awkwardly. Christ. "Um, do you want to, I don't know, talk about it?"

Dracula looks up, eyes flashing red. " _What_?"

"It helps, sometimes, talking about it," Desmond says. Also when the guy is taking he's not trying to kill him, which is a bonus. "Sounds like you've been through a lot of terrible shit – talking might get it off your chest."

"It's that what humans do – they talk their pain away?" the vampire asks, derisive and mocking.

"Sometimes," Desmond shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "Whatever works, yeah?"

"You people do like to make empty noise. My wife is dead, murdered by your people – _talking_ ," Dracula growls the works out like it's curse word, "will not change things."

Okay, for all that the guy was so but monologuing before, he's not a talkative sort? Right. "Okay," Desmond says, considering the guy. Doesn't look like this guy is yet in the bargaining stage of grief yet. And Eagle Vision led him here for a reason, so…

"There's book there your wife read to your kid," Desmond comments. "Wanna look at it and have a cry about it?"

Dracula lifts his head and looks at him very slowly. Desmond very carefully doesn't shift his footing nervously, even though most of him wants to run like hell. The guy looks like he's considering lashing out again.

Then Dracula says, quietly, "Give it to me," and Desmond does that instead, crawling into the nest of blankets to fetch the book. It looks like some sort of picture book.

"Oh, I remember this," Dracula murmurs, wooden sword still in one hand and the book spread over his lap. "It was new, my son was so very excited about it… the last picture book we got for him, before he began learning sciences instead…"

Desmond crouches by the guy, feeling weirdly small – he's used to being the tallest guy in the room most of the time, but even sitting down Dracula is still _huge._  "What's it about, the book?" he asks. "Looks pretty but, I can't read it, so…"

The vampire turns a page tenderly, like the thing is precious, and draws a slow breath. "It's a collection of human tales and poetry from the Arabies," he says. "Translated into Romanian. One Thousand and One Nights."

"Nice, I can see why he'd be excited," Desmond comments, peering at the book.

"I think my wife was even more excited," Dracula whispers, stroking the page. "She loved tales from distant lands, she uses to say that it was like being able to travel into the minds and beliefs of other cultures – that it parted the veil of otherness we lay upon strangers and foreigners…"

Desmond opens his mouth to say something along the lines of _sounds like a smart woman,_ but then Dracula is crying again and it doesn't seem right.

So, quiet, he sits beside the monster of classic horror movies and keeps him company instead. He still has no idea what is going on – since when were vampires real, he'd think he would've found something out about them before, but… that can wait.

There's – frankly a bit ridiculous but also very scary – guy crying over a book and a toy sword.

Desmond can wait.

It's a long wait. Not just minutes – it's hours of sitting there while Dracula at first cries blood over the book and then listlessly stares at it, stroking the pages. But Desmond is nothing if not patient. He's waited longer than this for less of a reason – and again, so as long as the guy isn't trying to kill him…

It gives him time to have his private freak out about vampires and about actual Dracula bring real, and also what the fuck is even his life. Is he even alive? Bodily functions point to that direction, but then there was also Juno's and Minerva's promised death.

Not the first time he was lied to, granted. And both of them conveniently failed to disclose the fact that their Earth-saving mechanism was an actual God Machine of true Omnipotential Proportions. Hell, he doesn't even know if the Eye saved the world, all he can do is hope and wonder what the fuck, and why the hell the thing spit him out here.

Wonder what year it is…

Dracula, now that he's not trying to kill Desmond, is a sight to behold. Guy looks like a promotional poster for a theatre play or something – all fancy gothic clothes and stuff. Moustache, goatee, long hair – really, he looks like an iconic pop culture villain. It's cool in a very I-can't-believe-this-is-real-life way.

… wasn't there something about Dracula in Ezio's time – like maybe Ottoman Assassins killed him? Awkward.

Desmond's ass is going numb, sitting on the stone floor. And Dracula is still not moving – if it wasn't for his hand on the page, Desmond wouldn't have been sure if the guy was breathing. Do vampires need to breathe?

Seriously, vampires. Since when?

His mind wanders off to the future, wondering if Shaun knew anything. Clay was the one running the database while Desmond was learning about the Ottoman Assassins, and he never thought to ask. Vlad Dracula Ţepeş wasn't exactly high on the list of priorities with the end of the world coming up. You'd think vampires and potential other supernatural creatures would've come up though, if they existed. Their lives were so full of weird bullshit already, what's a little bit more, eh?

Hopefully they got out of the Temple alive, Shaun, Rebecca, Dad… hopefully he got that much right at least.

"Seer."

Desmond blinks and looks up to the vampire. "Huh?"

"You said you have a vision-based psychic abilities and you know the future," Dracula comments. "That makes you a Seer."

"We. Okay, sure, if you'd like," Desmond agrees. "Don't think I can swing the telling the future part though."

"Hmm," Dracula answers and looks at him. "How did you come to my castle, Seer? I know you came through a portal. Where, how?"

Well. Fuck it. "Temple with ancient technology," Desmond shrugs. "I activated a thing there. It was supposed to something else though, dunno why it sent me here. Didn't even know it could do that." In hindsight though, he'd not sure there's actually anything it couldn't do. "Compete freak accident. Sorry for intruding."

Dracula doesn't answer, closing the book. "And what was this device supposed to do?"

"Protect the world from a life-ending super solar flare," Desmond answers, driving his weight slightly back and forward.

Dracula blinks at that – which is noticeable, because Jesus, the guy has lashes for miles. "There has been no solar flares."

Desmond shrugs. "I think it happens in another time," he admits and looks at the guy. "Any chance you could tell me what year this is?" Because going by everything here, it ain't the 21st century anymore.

Dracula's brows arch. "It is the winter of 1475, in the year of your Lord. You think you have traveled through time?"

"Oh. Yeah," Desmond says and looks away, swallowing. "Yeah that – that makes sense."

Damn yeah, that explains it, kind of. Year 1476 was the year Ezio's father and brothers were hung – and maybe part of Desmond is still hung up on that, too. Now why he ended up in Dracula's castle, he doesn't know – but the timing makes sense. Take a bit of regret, a bit of ancestral memories and a God Engine, and apparently you get time travel.

Cool.

Dracula considers him silently for a moment, and then finally moves, standing up silently, going just up and up. Christ, the guy is tall.

"You come from the future," the vampire says, weirdly listless. "Humans still exist in the future you come from."

"Er yeah, I hope so," Desmond agrees and stands up, his back cracking and ass aching. He stretches, groaning. "Seven billion of us, the last I looked, and with any luck everyone's still kicking."

Dracula seems to almost sag at that. "Then I fail," he says in a truly dead voice. "My war fails."

Desmond hesitates, watching him, checking with Eagle Vision. White – no murderous intent. "What – what war?"

The vampire doesn't answer, turning to the pillow fort and walking over to it. While Desmond watches warily, the vampire collapses on his knees by the blankets and cushions. "It still smells like them," he murmurs and then, probably utterly unbecoming of a creature of the night, crawls into the pillow fort.

Desmond stares at him – at this horror movie monstrosity, at Vlad the Impaler, at Dracula the Prince of Darkness, or whatever he is… in a child's pillow fort. It should be ridiculous.

The vampire lord curls around a pillow like a lost child looking for comfort, pressing his face to it, and then doesn't move at all.

It's not very funny, is it?

"Anything I can do for you?" Desmond asks quietly.

Dracula doesn't answer, doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

After a moment, Desmond sits his ass down again, and settles in to wait it out. He probably could've left now, he doesn't think Dracula would have even noticed, never mind about caring, but… there's no one else there for the guy.

So, Desmond stays.


	3. Chapter 3

Dracula dreams of glimpses and lost moments. Watching Lisa give their son a bath but being too busy to take part in the activity himself. Looking through parted doors as she experiments with mould and fungus. Spotting her sleeping cosily with books flung all about her bed, early in their life together, when she was not yet his love and he wasn't even sure why he hadn't eaten her. Watching her from the shadows while she watched the sunrise… 

Back then, life had seemed so full of endless possibilities and time. Never before had Dracula endured the presence of a human for so long, and it seemed to grow only longer with his own confusion and conflict, like some obscure trial of patience. The hours and days in the beginning, when he did not know, they seemed so long, so drawn out, and he had not known to enjoy them.

Then he had learned he loved her – and it was like time, formerly so stilted, had all but grown wings, and picked up the pace for the lost hours and days. So everything maintained its rosier glow of _forever_ – but the days… the days flew.

Before he knew it, she was his wife, she was the mother of his child, she was the bright shining centre of his formerly bleak world. And yet she would not let him orbit her for the sake of it. She had the Lord of Darkness wrapped around her meticulously washed finger and she didn't want it – didn't want his obsession or devotion. Lisa Ţepeş didn't want a worshipper.

_"I told you, dear – travel, like people do. You might like it. And who knows – maybe you will find other humans you might like."_

There's a human there now, waiting on him. There are two sides of Dracula that vie for attention every time he breaches the surface of sleep for long enough to notice Desmond Miles. One side, the one that festers and burns with the embers of his hatred, wants the man gone, dead, destroyed for the crime of human existence. The other side, the tired weary side facing a life of darkness again, doesn't care what the human does. Even if it is to drive a stake through his heart, Dracula cares not.

He sleeps and mourns.

And then Dracula dreams of worse things. His son lifting his sword against him. Lisa's bones upon the pyre. Older things. Losing their son in woods, hearing the wolves howl… he'd never been so afraid in his life. The horror in Lisa eyes when he told her of the deeds of his past, how she looked away at the mention of blood and death. They fought over it, early on, him not understanding her disgust and her not understanding his pride in the face of human mortality.

_"A demented cow can kill a man with great gore, I don't see what's there to be proud about it."_

_"When you've lived as long as I have, you will understand. A hundred years after their death no one will remember them or their lives or their little mortal families – but they will remember the act of their death for centuries."_

Mortality made men worth so little to time and history. First she refused to understand it, and even when she sincerely tried she could not. She didn't see the endless flow of meaningless rabble that is humanity, how thousands and thousands died every moment and how little it mattered to anyone or anything. History will not mourn the death of mortal fools any more than it mourned the death of rats and worms on their fields. Individually, humans are worth _nothing._

In groups, they bear careful watching, lest they get notions and decide to act on those notions. Even rats in large enough numbers can form a plague.

Dracula lifts his head, his anger and determination rekindling – humans need to be put into their place, they need to be culled, they need to _die_ … he almost revels in this burst of energy, only to come to a confused halt.

Something is missing.

The human isn't there.

Dracula awakens fully, surrounded by the scent of his family, his wife and son, it's enough to clear his head and cloud it anew – their son's little fortress when he was small, soft with feather and down. Through it he can see the room beyond, and where the human Desmond Miles had sat waiting and watching him… there is no one. Only the scent lingers.

So short, the limits of human patience, so quickly expended.

Dracula lays down his head and sighs. He should have dealt with the human. In hindsight he can tell the human had been there for days, keeping a strange sort of vigil over him. There would have been many opportunities to kill him and get rid of him – or at least chase him away. And despite all that, now that Desmond Miles is away, the vampire lord finds himself annoyed by the absence.

And yet, mustering the will to do something about it seems insurmountable. What does it matter, after all, what the human does, where he goes? Dracula's war _fails_ , Desmond Miles is a proof of that. What is there left to do?

What is there left that's worth anything?

He drowses miserably before a sound catches his ear. Sounds of climbing and then a scrape of something, a shoe perhaps, against a wall. Next thing he sees is Desmond Miles hauling himself up and into the room no staircase leads to, the end of a rope in his teeth.

Not moving, Dracula watches him using the rope to haul up a sack made of a curtain, filled to bursting with misshapen things. Food, water, bedding, books. As Dracula eyes him, the human spreads them out, grabbing a bit of what looks like salted meat and biting into it before making himself comfortable with a book in his lap and pillows under him. There is finality to how he settles down at the edge of Adrian's fort.

Desmond Miles isn't going anywhere, it seems.

Dracula closes his eyes and sleeps some more.

* * *

 

Eventually his sleep sours, as all things are wont to do. His dreams become fitful and restless, moments of regret and missed opportunities turning into could-have-beens and grim visions. He sees her burning, sees their son falling, sees their blood spill – sees humans celebrating their deaths. He sees worse and worse things, nightmares and terrors, and wakes himself with his tossing and turning.

In between bouts of terrible dreams he senses Desmond Miles. The man is a constant presence, his heartbeat giving rhythm to Dracula's dreams, a steady drumbeat. Sometimes the human is reading, sometimes he just sits there, sometimes he's moving about. Every so often he's gone, but never for long, returning after a visit to the kitchen or to the baths or after finding more books to read. Sometimes, he too sleeps.

Eventually, the act of trying to stay asleep becomes more exhausting than being awake – and dreams are no longer offering him an escape. Loss permeates them, and Dracula's mind in its grief only makes it worse – as if he's trying to kill his own heart, drown it in sorrow.

Dracula awakens and knows, there would be no more rest to be had. Neither his mind nor his body would permit more.

Sighing, he tangles his fingers into the blankets and then he hears it. Laboured breathing, gasping – weeping.

Desmond Miles is crying in his sleep.

Dracula rises to sit and looks past the curtain of blankets. The human had made a nest of his own from curtains, cushions, other blankets he'd found around the castle. He lays spread out upon them, limbs akimbo, but his body is going tense, shoulders drawing up, fingers clutching onto the covers.

He'd murmuring something in a language that is not English – Arabic.  "... Pay for what they have done," he says, his words a snarl of pain and fury. "I swear it – I will – I will have justice."

Dracula leans his arm on his bent knee, watching the human toss and turn. Curious – the man speaks Arabic as well as he speaks his oddly accented English – natively. He certainly doesn't seem like an Arab. 

"Our son, Maria," Desmond Miles weeps with terrible biting misery. "Why was our son put to death…"

Dracula stares, expressionless, while Desmond Miles struggles with his demons, crying for a dead son and then for a dead wife – slain, judging by the sounds of it, in front of him. Once Dracula might have seen such display as pathetic, evidence of human weakness – but is he any better now? As it is, it is likely the projection of his own grief that is bringing the man's own sorrows forth. And it's not all his mood as done to the man.

Desmond Miles looks less healthy now. His cheeks are gaunt and his skin paler than before, the shadow of a beard more pronounced with lack of shaving and care. The shadows under the man's eyes look near permanent. It's been days, perhaps weeks – and Dracula doubts in those weeks Desmond Miles had had much in a way of peaceful sleep.

And even so, even with the darkness and nightmares exuding from the vampire… the human man, who knows him not, had not left Dracula's side, keeping him company as he tried to sleep his pain away.

Dracula lowers his eyes and then closes them, bowing his head.

What a sight he must make. A great lord seeking comfort in childish things. How the other vampire lords would laugh, how they would revel in his weakness. And any human would surely take advantage of it, strike him down as he was laid low by a broken heart – anyone would take advantage, surely. Anyone would have. Had his son found him in such a state, he surely would have...

Desmond Miles shouts, "No!" and then his language shifts once more, turning to slightly more familiar Italian. "Stay with me, Christina!"

Dracula sighs and stands up, pushing past the curtains of blankets and into the clearer air. Beyond this nest of soft things and painful memories, the castle looms empty and cold. Once a monument of his power and knowledge, a place to house his soldiers, his generals, his monsters… it now seems…

It seems…

Too much.

Dracula steps in front of Desmond Miles and lifts his hand, claws splayed out. "Be at peace," he says and cuts through the haze of nightmares lingering over the man. All tension goes out of the human, and he falls lax upon the blankets and pillows, his sleep becoming dreamless.

Listlessly, Dracula considers him lying there, helpless and defenceless, and then looks at the books around him. Latin, Italian, Arabic, some French – Desmond Miles had even found a Romanian dictionary in Latin and was some quarter way through it, trying to learn the language. His guest is a learned man, it seems, a polylingual one at that. He didn't act it. Even in the glimpses of him Dracula remembers from amidst his dreams, the human seemed rather casual in his mannerisms. Well-learned, ill-mannered, trained killer… and loyal to a vampire he didn't even know. In whose face he laughed. Whose attacks he'd deflected and ran away from.

"You are a _distraction_ ," Dracula tells him quietly. "You will draw my mind away from my wife."

Then he kneels down to pick the human up – to carry him away from the fortress of false comfort, and into the castle proper.

* * *

 

Weary, Dracula checks the time, the date, the many instruments that monitor the castle. It has now been almost three months since Lisa's death and his son's betrayal. Three months since everything came to ruin. Three months since he sentenced humanity to death, an execution he's now doomed to fail at.

Three weeks and two days since Desmond Miles found himself in Dracula's Castle. In hindsight, it's something of a relief to find that no one else has entered the place since then. Perhaps the man was telling the truth about the accident with a portal of ancient technology.

It matters not.

Dracula goes through the motions of securing his castle, and then sits at the human's side, waiting for him to wake up.

Desmond Miles is a young man, for all that he had apparently had two wives and a son and lost all three. But then what does Dracula know of humans and how they age – he couldn't place Lisa's age, and apparently their son grew up faster than a human boy would have. It was as if Dracula had turned his eyes away for a second, and his son was already the height of a man. Humans live such short, fast lives, trying to cram as much as they can into their short lifespans. And yet…

"How can you love twice, _lose_ twice, and still live?" Dracula asks. "How can anyone?"

"You just – keep at it," Desmond Miles murmurs sleepily. "Fake it 'till you make it, that sort of thing."

Dracula arches a brow as the man wakes up fully and realises he's not where he was. "You moved me," the human says, tensing under the covers

"I grew tired of sleeping," Dracula comments and leans back. "And it seemed as though you wished to stay at my side. So yes. I moved you."

The human blinks at him. "Okay, then," he says and sits up. "Are you alright?"

Dracula frowns. "What kind of question is that?"

"I watched you sleeping for like two weeks straight, not eating or drinking or anything," the human points out. "That's usually not something you just walk off."

"I'm a vampire," Dracula points out. "You think your human frailty applies to me?"

"I don't know about human frailty, but I'd think you'd be hungry by now."

He is, as a matter of fact – but the pain of hunger is so secondary to everything else that he had not even noticed before now. Dracula gives the human a look. "Why – are you volunteering?" Is that why the man is still here – is he seeking to be turned and join the ranks of the immortals?

Desmond Miles blinks and then leans back a little. "Er, well," he says and glances around for an exit.

Dracula gives him a wry look. "Why are you here, Desmond Miles? What do you want?"

"Er," the man says again, hesitant. Then, as Dracula watches and tracks his expression, he shrugs. "Peace and long life, in the long term," he says. "Some food that isn't a few years old in the short term. And somewhere in the middle of it I'd like to go to Florence."

For a moment Dracula merely eyes him expecting more – even though what is being said is already quite a deal. "Is that all?" the vampire then asks, not sure he believes a word of it – except perhaps the part about the food.

"Okay, the Florence part is a bit more time-sensitive – sometime this year would be nice," Desmond Miles says and coughs. "But, uh. I can probably figure that one out on my own, I'm not exactly asking you to take me there. It's just a general plan."

Dracula tilts his head a little. "Then why haven't you left?" There are clothes aplenty in the castle, the human could have taken them, made himself somewhat prepared for Wallachian winter and left, taking with him the food stores. The mountains are desolate, but not as dangerous as all that, and the man knows something of fighting. Surely he could have done it.

"Well," the human says and gives him a look. "It kind of seemed like someone should stay with you for a while. There's no one else here, so…"

Dracula rises to his feet, privately revelling in the hint of wary tension that strikes the man as he stands over him. Desmond Miles is casual, but he is prepared and not stupid – knows to fear him. "You think I needed a nursemaid," Dracula says, pitching his voice low.

Desmond Miles looks at him, and then shoves the duvet off his body, standing up. He is somewhat shorter than Dracula, but he stands his ground. "I thought," he says. "That someone should stay."

Dracula could strike him down. Part of him wants to. "And what do you want as your reward for this company?" Dracula sneers.

The human considers it seriously for a moment, and the vampire scowls, impatient and disgusted. It takes a while for the man to decide what he wants. "Dinner."

… not what Dracula expected. " _Dinner_?"

The human shrugs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his white – and by now, somewhat dirty – doublet. "I'm really tired of salted pork," he admits. "And also probably at the point of scurvy – I want proper food."

"Of all the things you must have seen in this castle, of all the things you must by now know I am capable of or own… you want dinner?" Dracula asks incredulously. "Are you insane? Or is it a trick?"

"A trick, probably," Desmond Miles admits freely. "I kinda really want to see how you eat, it's been bothering me all this time. Like, can you eat actual food or is it all blood, and if it's all blood, does it have to come from a living thing, or will stored blood do, and also, does it have to be human or is animal fine?" he trails off and coughs. "And in hindsight I realise this is actually a bad idea. Can I cross myself out from the menu?"

The vampire leans in a little, just to see his eyes widen. "You think yourself worthy of having dinner with a lord? I should drink your blood just for the insolence of asking this," he muses.

"My blood is probably really bad, you wouldn't believe the junk in it," the human says quickly, leaning back. "Really bad for your health. I wouldn't recommend it."

Dracula narrows his eyes at the man, wondering if he is mad after all. "Indeed," he says, and despite everything his interest has been piqued. "You amuse me. Dinner it is, then," he says and waves a hand. "With a few caveats."

 "Okay," Desmond Miles says agreeably. "Whatcha got?"

"Firstly, you will clothe yourself appropriately," Dracula says, looking him over. "You are having dinner with nobility – _this_ will not do. Secondly, you will clean yourself up and shave properly. And thirdly… you will answer all of my questions honestly and fully, during our dinner."

"I don't really have anything to change into," the human admits awkwardly. "Or stuff to shave with."

"There are plenty of clothes in this castle – as well as razors," Dracula says, unimpressed with this excuse. "Find them and make use of them."

"Oh. Okay then – I mean, I didn't feel right just stealing your stuff, but, yeah, okay. I can do that," Desmond Miles agrees, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "One thing though. Who's going to make the dinner?"


	4. Chapter 4

 

Desmond is feeling kinda out of sorts. He's also wishing there was a less prissy way of putting it, but he just feels out of it. The past couple of weeks have just been weird and weirdly tiring.

The damn castle has it out for him, he thinks. The endless corridors, the layout that makes no sense, the gravity defying spires – the damn ghosts everywhere. And on top of that, there's tech there which doesn't fit, futuristic tech. Electric lights, heating, elevators, things like that – and a lot of things he doesn't get. They kind of confuse his sense of time. And trying to puzzle through Dracula's books and figure out something useful for the future, like local language…

All the while watching a guy sleep away a couple of weeks, not knowing whether he should be doing something to make sure the guy didn't die of starvation or dehydration in the meanwhile. Not a source of stress he'd been expecting at this stage of life.

In the end, most of what he's been doing for the past couple of weeks can be summed up as him sitting on his ass and not doing much of anything, and for some reason he feels exhausted.

Though some of that might be him sleeping like shit. You'd think he'd be used to the nightmares by now, he's been having nothing but nightmares since Altaïr, but Desmond could swear they're getting worse. Animus withdrawal maybe? It would be just his luck that he'd gotten addicted to the damn thing and not realised it.

"Okay," he murmurs, stretching as he walks away from the chambers Dracula had taken him to – which wasn't creepy _at all, nope._ "Clothes clothes, some fancy ass clothes. Help me, Ezio Auditore, you're my only hope." Though he should probably look to washing and shaving first…

Desmond stops as white spectre appears ahead of him, hooded, caped, familiar – and looking downright at home and comfortable in the ridiculous castle. Ezio glances back at him over his shoulder, throwing him a smug little grin. Seriously?

"There is no way you've ever been here – I would _know_ if you did," Desmond complains at the spectre, but Ezio doesn't seem to care – he just sets out ahead of him at a leisurely jog, to lead him to... wherever.

Well. Ezio _would_ like the place, with all the jumping and parkour you have to do just to get around. Half of the stairs are either broken or lead into dead ends, and for all that the castle has elevators, their primary goal seems to be to confuse the user's sense of direction and elevation.

Sighting, Desmond sets out after him. It's probably some trick of the Eagle Vision anyway, a visual representation of the information he'd subconsciously gleaned of the castle. He's learned not to question his ancestors when it comes to ghosts and visions.

Ezio leads him halfway through the castle, over the walls and broken floors and to the jump across a set of rafters, and eventually to what seems to be a ballroom. The place is a mess, but there is a lot of lingering memories of dancers there, stuck in the act of swaying and circling across the floor. Ezio braves through them, and Desmond follows, watching the dancers. Vampires, maybe? Or had the castle once been occupied by humans?

Something to ask Dracula, if the guy felt like answering.

Then Ezio leads him to a dressing room and a wardrobe with endless rows of various fancy dresses and coats and whatnot. It's a lot, and a lot of finery. Desmond can even see hats and wigs and everything.

"... Thanks," he says awkwardly to Ezio, who seems to be waiting for something. His ancestor bows theatrically and then fades away, leaving Desmond alone with the fancy stuff.

For a while, Desmond loses himself in shuffling through the clothes, checking out all the bling they're decked with. There's pieces from different periods of time, it looks like – there's stuff there he thinks Altaïr would be happy to wear. There's also things he could very easily see Ezio and some of the company he keeps wearing at some fancy party… if Assassins held fancy parties. Mostly they seemed to hang around taverns.

Ezio was a nobleman though, and from this time period. Something like what he and the company he used to keep wore?

Desmond considers the type of clothing he'd seen people wear around Florence, poofy sleeves and breeches and all, and decides to go with something else. It's not everyday he can really dress up, and having lived through Altaïr's, Ezio's and then Haytham and Connor's lives while himself wearing the same set of clothes day in and day out… well, he'd been feeling a little under-dressed for the mental company he was keeping for a while now.

And with this many things to choose from… he can go a bit wild, surely. He probably wouldn't ever get the opportunity to do it again. No one would blame him.

The clothes he selects smell surprisingly good for all that they must've been sitting around gathering dust for months, if not years. Or _centuries._ Maybe Dracula has air-conditioning. He seems to have most other modern comforts anyway…

Desmond folds the clothes over his arm and goes about selecting boots. There's lots to choose from. At first he goes for a sensible pair, but… why settle for sensible when you can have something more impressive? Never mind sexy. Men wear heels these days, after all. Ezio did, probably until he died, and Dracula certainly does. Desmond might as well join the club – Dracula's making him feel short anyway.

Desmond picks up a fitting pair with heels among many extravagant sets of boots – some of them ridiculously long. He goes with something like what Ezio wore – at first. But…

"Fuck it," Desmond mutters, and goes to pick a thigh length ones instead. "We're in a vampire castle. Let's live a little."

Now who can he call upon for a shave... 

* * *

 

About an hour of primping and preening under Haytham Kenway's very judgemental stare, Desmond heads out to find Dracula. The vampire had said, _"Leave the concerns of dinner to me,"_ which was a little worrying, but alright. Here's hoping there's more than blood in there.

It's mostly by Eagle Sense he finds where the dinner is laid out. There's a dining hall – of course there is – but it's not exactly in a logical place in the castle. Right next to some bathrooms and a set of storage rooms, actually. Desmond is getting the feeling that the castle had maybe been taken apart and put together in the wrong order.

The dining hall is _fancy_ , though. It could probably fit two and a half floors in it, or most of a decent-sized church. It's got decor, which is rather light compared to the rest of the castle – warm marble, mostly, with one wall taken over by enormous stained glass windows overlooking half of the rest of the castle, with mountains as its backdrop. The floor is dominated by the long table fit for thirty, maybe forty people, banked by handcrafted chairs with black wood and red velvet lining. 

The table is covered in platters and bowls of steaming food – easily enough to feed the forty people who would fit at the table, and then some. It all looks _so good_ too, just glistening under the light of the chandeliers hanging above the table. The smell of it is incredible.

Desmond half expects it to be an illusion. There's no one in the castle – no people, no servants, nothing. Where did Dracula get this stuff, who made it? Did anyone need to make it or was there some vampiric magic of food creation? It's way too much, way too good to even make sense. Never mind being way to much for just two people.

Desmond's stomach grumbles pathetically, and quickly he glances around. Dracula isn't there.

So, clasping his hands behind his back under his cape to keep himself from being tempted to grab something from the table, Desmond moves to the stained glass windows instead, to enjoy the view.

The castle is really ridiculous. It's got these offshoot towers everywhere, which really can't be architecturally sound. Or _practical_. And damn Ezio for imparting architectural knowledge on him too, because aside from the whole thing being illogical… it _looks_ incredible. Like a painting, a scene from a fantasy movie maybe. It looks like something you need a lot of CGI to make it work. Would be lovely to just enjoy the aesthetic, but instead he looks at the towers and thinks, _that must've cost a fortune, and for what? The square feet can't be worth it._

Though maybe the cost of things works differently when you're a vampire. Dracula's castle is already on a mountaintop, which must've been damn hard to build on – how did he even get the materials here, never mind the workforce? 

And he's trying to apply logic to vampires. _Yeah._

There's a sound behind him, and Desmond turns to look past the edge of his hood to see the lord of the castle enter. Dracula had changed too – gotten rid of the depression cape and donned on impressive, wide-shouldered coat instead, black with a red trim. There's lace coming from the sleeves, and the neckline – startlingly white and clean against all the black. Whether the man had done something to his hair, Desmond can't tell – it was kind of perfect before, a dramatic mane of black waves. It's all very elegant.

It also makes Desmond feel a bit like an albino peacock, with what he'd pulled on. 

Dracula looks at him and then stops to take him in. There's no immediate judgement in his stare, so Desmond decides to own his get up – it's the closest thing to a proper Assassin he'd felt, outside of wearing other people's skin or actually literally assassinating people.

The slanted red cape might've been too much.

"Are you aware you are wearing a woman's coat?" Dracula asks finally.

Desmond wasn't, actually. Must've been a tall woman. "Since I'm wearing it, it's currently a man's coat," he says and runs a hand over its lapels. The thing fits him, so he doesn't care – and it was the fanciest, most elaborately embroidered coat in Assassins colours he could find. It also had slanted hems – a lot like tails of an Assassin robes. Win-win really. "Why – does it make me look fat?"

"... What?" Dracula asks, frowning.

Desmond shrugs. "I like it," he says. "Don't you?"

Dracula considers him. "I wonder if I should send you to change," he murmurs. "It's unbecoming."

"Okay, just for that, I'm going to wear this forever," Desmond snorts. "I don't care if it's not to your tastes – I think I look amazing."

And he does too. He even found a hood, just a detachable red and white hood which fit perfectly under the lapels of the coat – it was fucking _kismet._ The red half cape was just a cherry on top. Or maybe a strawberry...

"And you think what you think matters?" Dracula asks slowly, almost but not quite derisively.

"To me it does," Desmond agrees and gives him a look. "And more than what you think it does, right now. You don't need to be an asshole, man. Rude."

The vampire scowls. "This is my castle, I get to be whatever I want."

"Yeah, but you don't need to be. You could be nice instead," Desmond sure. "Like this – you look amazing, that coat really brings out your form; did you do something to your hair, because it looks fierce. It's not hard. Less effort, really."

The vampire arches his brows almost incredulously at that. "Are you mocking me again?" he asks then.

"A little bit," Desmond agrees. "But you are being a dick. Sorry. Should we start over?"

Dracula considers him for a moment and then shakes his head. "I should just bite you and be done with it," he mutters.

"Be a waste of good food," Desmond comments, motioning at the table. "It looks amazing, too – did you make it? Or is it, like, bespelled to look delicious, but underneath it's all rotten and full of worms?"

The vampire glances at him. "And you criticise me for my manners? The food is real, I assure you, and fully edible."

Yeah, well, poisoned apples are edible, but that doesn't mean you should eat them. "Okay, sorry. It does look great."

Dracula sighs. "Just take a seat, Desmond Miles."

Desmond goes to take a seat hesitantly, trying to figure out where the vampire world sit. He doesn't want to be shouting to the other end of the table all dinner long. "A bit more food than I expected," he comments.

"I like to be through," Dracula says and, thankfully, sits across from him rather than at either end of the table. "Take whatever you like – it's all for you."

"So you don't eat real food?" Desmond asks, while taking a moment to put a napkin in his lap. He just got his outfit together, he's not ruining it with sauce. "It's just blood for you?"

"I can eat, but it does not sustain me," Dracula says, watching him, not moving to take anything. "I do eat it sometimes for the pleasure of taste, but right now I don't have that desire."

That was more elaborate an answer than Desmond had expected. "That's cool," he says. "But you're not having any blood either?"

The vampire arches a brow. "Perhaps I am waiting for your to finish and then will have yours."

Desmond looks at him and then glances around. "Is that why there's no garlic on any of this?"

The vampire lets out a noise, almost amused. "Did you think there would be?"

"I guess not," Desmond muses. So that's a thing – vampires and garlic. "Is it a smell thing – the garlic?"

Dracula hums. "In your time people don't know these things about vampires?"

Desmond glances up from the chicken he'd been pulling onto his plate. "There's a lot of stuff people think they know about vampires, but most of it is probably false," he says.

"You know of me, however," Dracula comments, watching him closely. "Your know my name – it made you laugh."

"Yeah, about that," Desmond says awkwardly. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me."

"It was a gut reaction," Dracula says, deceptively calm. "Anyone from your time would have laughed, yes? _Why?"_

"Well – you've kind of become a legend. People wrote stories, there are movies – plays, with actors and everything," Desmond says. "You're pretty famous, popular culture wise. Most everyone in the world knows about you."

"And they find me _ridiculous_?"

Well, that's a landmine. "Not – not ridiculous. It's more like – have you ever seen an old play?" Desmond asks. "Like, I don't know – about Greek gods maybe?"

"Perhaps," the vampire answers.

"Okay, imagine you've been seeing plays like that all your life, you knew it was all fiction, the Greek gods aren't real, and so forth – and then suddenly you met a man who, in all seriousness, introduced himself as Hercules, son of Zeus," Desmond explains, not sure if it really gets the idea across, but it's the best he can do. Globally known pop culture is kind of hard to translate in the world where printing press wasn't even a thing yet. "It was a bit like that. And I apologise."

Dracula leans back, stroking his chin. "People think me fictional," he comments.

"To be fair, where I come from, all vampires are considered fictional," Desmond admits warily. "If I hadn't met you, I still wouldn't have thought you were real."

Dracula eyes flash with bloody light. "Then in your time, vampires are no more," he says.

Desmond hesitates, grabbing his eating utensils. Honestly, he's not sure vampires were _ever_ a thing where he came from. Seriously, there isn't a way he _wouldn't know._ Even Templars and Abstergo couldn't cover something like that up.

Dracula turns away, staring at nothing. "So not only does my war fail, but my kind is wiped off the face of the world."

Desmond lowers the knife and fork, watching him uncertainly. "Your – war," he says slowly. "What is it?"

It's a while before the vampire answers, and his voice is flat and lifeless when he does. "Three months ago, when the bishop of Târgoviște burned my wife as a witch, I vowed revenge," he says. "One year I promised the humans, one year before I would unleash my armies on Wallachia – and on the world. To wipe out all of humanity once and for all."

Desmond just sort of gapes at him.

Dracula glances at him. "You do not approve."

"Well, no, not really," Desmond agrees slowly. "I'm kind of biased towards the survival and betterment of humanity, personally." Never mind philosophically opposed, _holy shit._ Dracula might not be into enslavement of humanity, but turns out he's kind of the epitome of all the things Assassins fight against.

"Hmph," Dracula says and closed his eyes. "I meant to call upon my generals, recruit Forgemasters to my cause, build up a horde of demons and night creatures to tear all that humans had built to the ground," he murmurs. "I would have begun with Târgoviște, where they killed her, and then Greșit, where my traitorous son sleeps. It would have been a glorious slaughter. Then you arrived, proving it all a hopeless fantasy."

 _Yay me,_ Desmond thinks faintly. Christ almighty, what the _fuck_? "It's a bit – um. If it was the bishop who killed your wife, why not just kill him? Why everyone? It's a bit disproportionate, if you ask –"

"Because they stood by and did _nothing!"_ Dracula suddenly roars, standing up so fast his chair flies back. "Because this is what they always do – they sit back and let evil happen and they _do nothing_ – worse than nothing, they cheer, they clap, they celebrate! The death of my wife was a spectacle, and no one tried to stop it, no one tried to help! For this, for the crime of complacency, they deserve to die!"

Desmond says nothing, staying very still, clutching onto the utensils and hoping that if it came down to it, he could use them as a weapon.

Dracula continues, all but ranting now. "My wife was kind, she was charitable – she first came to me because she wanted to _help_ people, because she wanted to _heal_. I taught her to be a doctor like she asked and watched her apply her craft among the humans, freely, curing their ills and ails – and for this, for her kindness and knowledge, she was killed, burned, and the people she so wanted to help rejoiced at her suffering. Because humanity cannot have anything pure and good without wanting to _destroy it_ too."

Dracula falls silent there, panting for a furious breath, clutching to the edge of the dinner table so hard the wood cracks. Desmond looks at him, expressionless, and slowly sets his utensils down. Between them, the food still looks delicious – but he has no more appetite.

Pointing out that not only is Dracula's concept of justice ridiculously skewed, but the whole thing is pretty damn improbable too... is probably not the right move here. If the literal sun-based end of the world couldn't end humanity, he doubts vampires could manage it. The whole thing is unrealistic. It's _sick_.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?" the vampire demands.

"I'm not taking responsibility for all humanity and their actions" Desmond says flatly. "I can't justify the actions of a man I haven't ever even met, and I'm not going to try."

"But you have no defence for the rest, either?" Dracula demands. "Do you? Even in time you come from, humans are petty and evil."

Desmond leans back, watching the tension in the man's shoulders. It doesn't look like he's about to jump over the table – but he might punch right through it. Fuck. "Systems are evil, institutions are evil. Humans, on the individual level, are mostly just dumb and ignorant and easy to fool," Desmond says quietly. "I won't say there aren't evil people, there are, sounds like this bishop might be one of them. But most humans are just following the crowd, because we're social animals, taking cues from those around us, doing what we think is best."

Dracula snarls and the table splinters. "That's not good enough!"

"Well, tough shit," Desmond says and stands up. "It is what it is. I'm sorry your wife was killed, I am, it was unfair and evil, yes – sounds like the bishop deserves to die for it, I'd be happy to do it for you – but that doesn't mean that the farmer seven towns over trying his best to feed his family who has never heard any of this deserves blame. Or the little girl who was just born. Or the little boy living in the streets because luck served him a shitty hand."

The vampires face twists with hatred. "They will only become evil later in life."

"What – like your _wife_?" Desmond asks pointedly.

The dinner table doesn't survive Dracula's answer to that one – and neither does the beautiful and impressive dining hall around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond "the risk i took was calculated, but man, i'm bad at math" Miles. 
> 
> Also Desmond's outfit is basically [this concept art for Evie's outfit](https://assassinscreed.fandom.com/wiki/Evie_Frye?file=ACS_Evie_Frye_Alternate_Outfit_-_Concept_Art.jpg) because I saw it and i love it and it would fit Castlevania so perfectly. It's even got the boots!


	5. Chapter 5

_"I'm not all that different from most people,"_ Lisa said. _"Oh, sure, plenty of them are ignorant and simple in their ways and live simple lives, but what alternative is there? Education is expensive and limited, most of the people in my village don't know how to read or write, they barely know how to count – but that doesn't make them less capable of it, doesn't mean there isn't a potential they could've. As it is, most books are in Latin…"_

The brickwork shatters under Dracula's hand as he tries to reach for the impudent human and catches only air and stone. Desmond Miles seems faster this time, staying expertly just or of reach of Dracula's attacks – he's managed to avoid a good dozen of them so far.

"Stay still!" Dracula snarls after him, while the human jumps back nimbly, a knife in one hand and a piece of a chicken leg in other. He's _eating_ while refusing to be killed, of all the _arrogant…!_

"You don't have much in the way of realistic expectations, do you?" the Seer asks, smiling grimly from under his red and white hood. "Do people seriously just stop and let you kill them?"

The vampire moves after him and his claws rip through a curtain instead of clothing and flesh, as Desmond Miles dances back again, avoiding the hit by a hair's width. He moves differently in his new clothes – and intellectually Dracula knows the man is leading him, baiting him into attacks that will end with him missing and hitting something else, intellectually he knows this, but –

"I think you actually expected me to react _positively_ to your plan of ending all humanity," the human says. "How far removed from reality can you get? I'm one of the people you're looking to kill! Why would you ever think I'd be for it?"

" _I won't judge you for your past actions, that's something you can't change,"_ Lisa told him. _"But today is now, the present is something you can affect – and if you now, knowing what you do and feeling what you feel for me, set out in looking for humans to kill for your dinner, what does that make you? My love, I'm human – why do you think I would rejoice in your plans of killing other humans?"_

Dracula swings around. "I don't care what you think!"

Desmond Miles gives him a look. "Tell that to the dining room table," he says and bites into the chicken. "Is that why the castle is empty – you sent away everyone who didn't agree with your unhinged worldview? Says a lot about your people, actually, that none of them stuck around to be your yes man."

"I sent them away because they tired me, and if I call upon them they will answer – and the ones that refused I _killed_ for the traitors they were!" Dracula shouts at him.

Desmond Miles considers this. "Like your _son?_ " he asks then, choosing his words with insidious care like selecting a weapon.

Dracula's world bleeds red, and near mindless, he attacks.

 _"He's half human,"_ Lisa said, while placing Adrian in his arms for the first time. _"We will teach him both ways, yours and mine. How to live in the shadows and light, both."_

 _"He will need blood,"_ Vlad had answered, even as he fell in love with the tuft of blond hair, the clutch of a tiny hand against the swaddling. _"There is vampire enough in him that he cannot be sustained by human food alone."_

Lisa hesitated, as she often did when thinking of him killing mortals. _"We will devise the means to extract blood for him,"_ she decided then. _"Using a syringe, perhaps. A kinder way – without killing. He's only a babe, after all."_

"My _son_!" Dracula snarls. "My son chose to side with mortals rather than avenge his mother! He deserved what he got!"

"Christ, and here I thought my dad was bad," Desmond Miles mutters. "Is that your default way of handling disagreements – you just attack everyone who doesn't agree? Your wife must've been a _doormat._ "

"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK ILL OF HER!"

He almost catches the human this time, but the attack is uncoordinated, and it seems Desmond Miles has gotten used to his pattern of attack – he stays just close enough to prompt the attacks, but far enough to get away just in time.

"She would have to be, to survive your first marital dispute," the human says, even as Dracula chases after him – there, he's in the corner now –! "Or what, did you have her under a spell, bewitched to agree to your every whim? What's it called, um – glamour, vampire _thrall_? Mindless slave, basically."

"SHE WAS NO SUCH THING!"

Dracula just barely manages to swipe at the human's cape before Desmond Miles runs up the wall, switches direction by kicking off the wall and then jumping into the rafters, standing above him.

Roaring, Dracula musters up his strength and summons Hellfire, becoming engulfed in the flames. That at least brings forth a reaction, and as the vampire spreads his arms to launch the fire at the human, Desmond Miles runs.

 _"As fun as it sounds, I don't think I will join you,"_ Lisa said with laughter. _"Your court is a little too much for me, dear – but I hope you enjoy yourself."_

 _"They are requesting to meet you,"_ Vlad had told her. _"You've become something of a mystery to my people – they all are looking to solve it."_

 _"Let them puzzle it out on their own,"_ Lisa said, amused. _"I'm quite happy in my laboratory."_

_"As my wife you'll need to make an appearance eventually, my love."_

_"I said no, Vlad. Now off with you, dearest. I have work to do. Give your court my regrets."_

"My wife," Dracula says, his voice shuddering in the wake of the attack. "Was the strongest willed women I have ever met – and I have met _many_. Even vampires could not match with her – she gave into no one, not me and not the others, not to humans. To her dying breath she stood by her beliefs, to her dying breath she defended them, the humans you side with. Don't you dare besmirch her!"

Desmond Miles stands at the very end of a burning bit of rafter, bracing his hands against the wall. Finally he looks nervous. "So it's just you," he comments, "who's weak."

Dracula snarls at this last bit of insult and moves to attack him again – but it's like moving through flowing water, his every move sluggish. Confused, Dracula looks down, expecting to find himself caught in some spell, but there's nothing. No, it's only the attack– a mere burst of Hellfire has exhausted his reserves.

"Sounds like your wife was a pretty impressive woman," the Seer comments. "Doctor and healer and defender of humanity who stood for what's right, what she believed in."

Dracula looks up, scowling suspiciously. "She was. She was a scientist and a teacher," he says. "She always believed in the best of people."

Desmond Miles crouches on the remaining bit of the rafters, watching him with the tails of his coat hanging about his folded legs. "That kind of makes you a shitty husband, you realise. She defended humanity, you want to kill it. Where's the logic in that?"

"They _killed_ her," the vampire snaps.

"So, what they do matters more than what _she_ did? Yeah. Shitty husband. I think she'd be ashamed of you," Desmond Miles comments, and before Dracula can do more than hiss angrily at him, he corrects himself. "No. She'd be _disappointed._ "

Dracula lifts his hand to strike him, but his strength has left him. "You have _no idea_ what she would think."

"Probably not, but I can see her touch around the castle," the Seer says. "And she doesn't seem like a woman who would be happy with any of this. Are you done breaking things now?"

Dracula, as much as wishes to be contrary, can only lower his hand. "I'm tired," he says. "You tire me."

"Good," the human says and, as if Dracula had not just done his level best to kill him, jumps down, landing with a roll and smoothly rising to stand, easily within arm's reach "You have some serious anger management issues, man."

"And _you_ are suicidal," Dracula answers flatly. "You provoke me on purpose."

"Yes," Desmond Miles agrees, giving him a considering look and then nodding. "Whatever works. I'm going to go see if anything of that dinner survived, wanna join me?"

"No," Dracula answers and turns away. "Begone, human."

Desmond Miles snorts and turns to walk away, just like that, seemingly with no hard feelings whatsoever. Dracula glances after him, frustrated and confused and, most of all, exhausted. There's definitely a tone of satisfaction and victory in the click of the man's heels. As per usual, humanity is tiresome.

In this case, it is also frustratingly right.

 _"Imagine it!"_ Lisa said, her eyes like moonlight, full of fantasy and hope. _"A world where everyone can read, where everyone knows science, how different it would be, how much better! No one is ignorant by choice, they simply don't know better – and how could they, when no one teaches them? But we could, we could change the world – we could end superstition and make people wiser!"_

She _would_ be disappointed with him.

* * *

 

The fire has gone out in the study, without his will keeping it going. Dracula looks at it the cold embers mocking him, and then sits down in his armchair, letting out a sigh as the fire rekindles.

He's exhausted. Mentally and physically – it has been weeks now, months perhaps, since he last ate. It's likely having an effect on his mood as well, and he thinks Desmond Miles might have figured something of that out. He'd certainly taken advantage of it, though to do what, Dracula isn't sure. The man had intentionally worn him out – but not to kill him.

Running his long-nailed hand over his face, Dracula sinks deeper in his chair. He doesn't want to think, not of Desmond Miles or of Lisa Ţepeş, whose voice seems to now fill his mind. And not her cries, not her anger, not her disappointment. The small things, insignificant things that he finds he misses dearly.

_"If I had some blood sausage while you had your dinner, would it be as though we were sharing the same meal?"_

_"Come see what I made! I think I finally fit the formula right!"_

_"I know you're nobility, but honestly, this dress is far too fine for me – in would always have to wear an apron in the laboratory…"_

_"Oh, don't you worry about us. Adrian and I can entertain ourselves, can't we, my little moonbeam?"_

_"Oh dear, they're lovely, where did your find such blossoms in winter?"_

Little things, moments, glimpses of a happier life. He'd almost prefer remembering their fights and arguments, instead – they would hurt far less. He remembers her in this very study, sitting with a book at first, then with Adrian in her lap. It feels as though if he looked to her chair how, she'd be there, reading to their boy while he pretended to not be tired.

His heart feels as though it's surrounded by iron barbs, digging in with every beat.

There's someone in the study – but it's not Lisa.

"I'm tired of you, human," Dracula says, closing his burning eyes. "Leave me."

Desmond Miles doesn't answer – and he doesn't seem to be listening either. He walks into the room and sets something at the armrest of Dracula's chair – a bottle, and a glass.

"It's blood," the human says, needless – Dracula knows the bottle, it comes from his own stores. How the human had found the stores, never mind getting _into_ them, the vampire doesn't know – they were supposed to be hidden.

He doesn't really have the energy to care either. "I'm not in the mood for this, human."

"So, your backup plan is willful starvation?" Desmond Miles asks, and the vampire can hear him moving towards the other armchair.

"That is my _wife's_ chair," Dracula tells him, opening his eyes

The human looks at him and then, very deliberately, sits down, going as far a crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, making himself very noticeably comfortable.

"That's what this is all about, isn't it? You know that the plan to end humanity is dumb," the Seer says. "You accepted that it won't work pretty easily, so it must've crossed your mind before. And you know it goes against your wife's wishes. But you're trying anyway because why?"

Dracula says nothing, eyeing him dubiously. He's easily within reach for the vampire to take his head off.

"Because you're self-destructing," the human tells him, add of he knows anything. "On all levels. You know what will happen if you turn on all humanity? You turn all humanity against you."

Dracula looks away, scoffing.

"And think what you want of us, we're pretty damn good at war. Maybe not as strong and as you, but give it time. Firearms are just around the corner, and I bet with enough motivation people can whip up anti-vampire weapons too."

What an ironic turn of words. "All the more reason to kill you quicker."

Desmond Miles gives him a look, and Dracula sighs. It didn't sound particularly convincing to his own ears either.

"And," the Seer says, "you're knowingly, intentionally, doing what you know your wife wouldn't approve of. It's like you're trying to make her hate you. Or maybe you're trying to make her punish you? Is a very self-destructive way of seeking connection either way."

"You know _nothing_ ," Dracula says quietly. "Our time together was brief, it is nothing in the life of an immortal. And now she's gone and I..."

… linger.

Desmond Miles looks at him from under the hood and then hums. "I can see memories people leave behind," he says. "The stronger the emotion associated, the clearer the memory. This place is full of memories of her – but they're not _her_ memories. I don't think you're in danger of forgetting her."

Dracula closes his eyes, his throat aching.

"Drink the blood," the human says, looking away from him and at the fire, his point made. "You're starting to look a bit skeletal."

"You're the one to speak," Dracula mutters – though the human does look better fed now. "Did you eat from the floor, like a common animal?"

"You're the one who flipped the table, man. Don't be a dick and drink the damn blood. You'll make your wife sad if you starve to death."

"You are impudent. I should drink your blood instead," Dracula mutters.

"Make me dinner first – oh, _wait_ ," the human says, as if in great realisation, and rolls his eyes.

It kindles a spark of amusement, quickly smothered, but real. Dracula sighs and opens the bottle. Pig's blood – it would do.

Desmond Miles looks at him from the corner of his eyes. "It's a start," he says.

* * *

 

Start of what, _though_? And what is it that Desmond Miles gets out of it?

"A really swishy set of clothes so far," the human says and throws the slanted red cape over his arm as they walk together down a corridor. "So this is already worth it."

Dracula takes in the clothes, the woman's coat and the thigh-length boots, the hood which the man never puts down now. It has the feel of a uniform, the way the man wears it. It's still on the outrageous side – for a human. Dracula has seen vampires wearing worse. Humans usually don't look to draw eyes this way, not unless they have the power to bear the gazes. It's very… eye-catching.

But then the man could handle the attention – he'd fought with a vampire lord twice and lived to tell the tale.

"What?" Desmond asks.

"Why would a Seer need to know how to fight as you do?" Dracula asks, looking away.

"Not actually a Seer – that's just what you decided I am," the human answers and looks away – at something Dracula can't see. "Though I guess I have the _seeing_ bit down. Kind of."

"If you are not a Seer, then what are you?"

The human runs a hand over the lapels of his coat. "An Assassin," he says then.

The vampire glances at him. "An assassin," he repeats.

"An Assassin," Desmond agrees and looks at him. "Born and bred."

"Hmm," Dracula answers and looks away again, ahead. He'd been walking mostly aimlessly, and automatically his steps had led him to his wife's laboratories. Sharply, he turns away, to head back the way they came from.

Desmond falls in step with him without a pause, pirouetting on one foot gracefully. Dracula catches him grinning a little – he seems to be enjoying his swishy clothes greatly. A man of simple pleasures, Desmond Miles.

"You offered to kill the bishop who had my wife burned," Dracula says.

"The offer still stands," Desmond says calmly.

Dracula considers it, wondering if the man is actually capable of it, if he's truly willing. It could be an excuse to escape the castle.

He hadn't really cared to seek revenge on one man, himself. They were _all_ guilty in his mind, all the humans, guilty of disregard, neglect and indifference, among a thousand other things. They would all have to die. Now... It would do nothing to sate his anger and hatred, but it would be a step in the direction of truly avenging his wife, wouldn't it?

Dracula should want to kill the man himself, to see to the vengeance personally – but even the idea of it makes him feel weary. Facing such a disgusting creature, such an entity of vile belief… he wants none of it. He just wants it all to come to ruins and to be razed to the ground.

But it would be… right, to end this one man, this one evil man. Even Lisa would agree.

"He should die," Dracula says, quiet.

Desmond looks at him and then nods. "Alright," he says. "Where can I find him and how do I get there?"

"So simply?" Dracula asks. "After all you said about siding with humanity?"

"I never said they were all good," Desmond says. "Most of them could be. But there are some that never will be, and who make the rest bad just by existing."

Dracula considers him, in all of his white and red clothes. He moves like a dancer in them – a sword dancer. "I see," he says. What a peculiar human this is. "Very well. I will have you do this for me – do it well, and I might even reward you, _Assassin._ "

"Not doing it for a reward," Desmond says. "But I'll take it. Who's my target and where do I find him?"

Dracula turns. "He was in Târgoviște the last I know – I have not kept up with his movements since. Come – I will take you there."

"Sweet," Desmond says and quickly follows. "How? I mean, we are on a mountaintop, and I'm pretty sure helicopters haven't been invented yet…"

"I have my means," Dracula says, and looks at him. "Do you think I _built_ this castle here? And without the means to travel?"

"Er, well. Things haven't exactly been following logic around here so… kind of?"

Dracula chuckles. "Come," he says. "I will show you the true power of the immortals."

The human would either succeed in the assassination, or he would fail, or he would run. Either way… seeing him try should be interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing to bring people together quite like planned murder. Dracula is no Lorenzo di Medici, though, so Desmond feels a _little_ iffy about performing an assassination for him – but then again, Lorenzo di Medici wasn't exactly as snow white as he appeared either, history-wise. No one is. And really, this bishop guy, he sounds like he deserves a blade in his guts.

Still… he might've jumped the gun with the whole thing. It did bring things into perspective and seemed to have settled something in Dracula – and _maybe_ , just _maybe,_ if Desmond managed to direct his revenge to one man rather than the whole of human race, maybe he wouldn't have to figure out a way to kill an iconic pop culture monster. That would be nice.

And then Dracula throws him through a magic portal, across the country, and into a medieval European city.

"I will be watching," the vampire says, the portal shimmering in the air between them like a tear in the fabric of reality while Desmond looks around, astonished. "Once you have done what you aim to, I will bring you back."

"Excuse me, what the _fuck_?" Desmond asks flatly, and with a crooked, amused little smile, Dracula waves his long-nailed hand over the shimmering portal, and then both he and the tear are gone, leaving Desmond standing alone in an alleyway somewhere in Târgoviște, apparently. "Oh, you _dick_."

He'd kind of thought they'd go together, he'd even looked forward to it, it might have helped in bringing Dracula out of his funk, but apparently not. Okay then.

"Right," Desmond mutters and then turns around, to the mouth of the alleyway. Beyond it there's a street, dark and empty – it's almost in the middle of the night, it seems. Not that time really seemed to matter in Dracula's Castle – it was _always_ night there, now that he thinks about it. He'd never really thought about it though.

Kind of creepy that it coincided with the real world. Magic, huh. Magical nights and magical portals. Whatever.

Time to find a viewpoint and take a look at the city.

Though the time is more or less the same here as it was in Ezio's youth, it being only a year before, Târgoviște isn't much like Florence. The architecture is different – a whole lot more gothic, really, with sharp roofs and pointed ends. Flamboyant Gothic, wasn't it? Desmond can almost remember what Shaun told him about it. Târgoviște has that sort of look going for it, anyway – very… fitting, for a scene of vampire activity.

Hard to climb, though.

The tallest point in the city is, naturally, the cathedral – which has mostly smooth walls, judging by the looks of it, with tall, sharp windows – it looks pretty imposing. It's not in the _best_ of shape, though – there's a section in the back, which is covered in scaffolding. There's some fire damage on that side of the cathedral, it looks like – the windows are being replaced, and a section of a wall is being re-plastered. Kind of looks like there's been an explosion there.

Desmond considers the scaffolding, and then, glancing around, he makes for it, hauling himself up past the struts and to the roof of the cathedral. It's all nostalgic, he'd _missed_ this when living Connor's life – this, just climbing churches, making way to their tallest spires to have a look. There might be no symbols from Clay, or feathers, or other kitchy gameplay mechanics Rebecca whipped up to make things more interesting for him, but it's still pretty cool.

Târgoviște is marked by snow – not a lot of it, but there's some lingering in the shadowy places on rooftops. It makes places here and there shine in the moonlight, but aside from that, the place is dark and kind of sharp looking, what with all the spiky rooftops. Really, it looks like something out of a vampire movie.

Desmond's whole life is a vampire movie now, huh.

Balancing on the cross on top of the central spire of the Târgoviște cathedral, Desmond draws in a slow breath and then activates his Eagle Sense, taking in the city in its fullest. And oh boy, is that a _different_ sensation, in real life.

He knew there was a reason why Ezio, Altaïr and Connor did it, some real world function for climbing high places and taking in the scenery. It translated as a mechanic in the Animus, making the whole thing feel like a videogame, but he always knew, in the back of his head, that there had to be something they got out of it that had nothing to do with the Animus loading up a new section of the map.

The city seeps into his head, it's a bit like getting high. Suddenly, he just… knows it. Before the cathedral, there is a market, even now there are sellers there, one of them might sell weapons if he has coin. There, in that distant back street, there is someone who might sell him medicine – it doesn't feel like a doctor though. A witch or a wise woman, maybe. There, something he never encountered with Ezio, not what he's looking for but something _interesting_ nonetheless. There, a familiar feeling – safety, a place to hide maybe. There, another point of interest, it feels blood-red and _thirsty_. A vampire?

No feeling of target, though – the guy he's looking for isn't in the city. There are points of lesser interest, which feel _related_ though. Means to find him.

Desmond hums, crouched on the cross with the wind tugging on his cape and coat tails, considering which way to go first. If this was the Animus, he'd deal with the lesser points of interests first, buy a weapon or two along the way, accumulate funds, maybe gather a feather or two for old time's sake.

He has a feeling Dracula wouldn't have the patience for side-questing, though.

Better check out the main quest first, then.

Looking down, Desmond searches the area around the cathedral for something jump into. No convenient piles of hay, sadly – but there _is_ a cart, which gleams silver and safe. Looks like it's full of clothing and blankets. Nice.

Standing up, Desmond balances on the cross on his high heels, spreading out his arms to the wind and grinning as his cape flares. Three lifetimes – and finally, he's looking and performing the part of a proper Assassin. His life, seriously.

Then he jumps and performs the first Leap of Faith of Târgoviște.

Hell of a start, isn't it?

* * *

 

"Hmm," Desmond murmurs, turning the letter in his hands. He broke into the house of some church official, he thinks – there's certainly enough crosses around for it – and his Eagle Sense had led into the man's office and into a chest of papers, and this _looks_ and _gleams_ important… and he has absolutely no idea what it's saying.

His ventures into the dictionary on Romanian did not reach the level of reading cursive, it seems. Not that he  could read it even if he could make heads or tails of the cursive – he'd only been studying the language half seriously and not with much hope of success. He wasn't much on book learning.

Romanian ancestor would come in handy right about now.

"Well…" Desmond murmurs, rolling the letter up and shoving it under his belt. Dracula could read it and figure out why it was important, probably. Or he could find someone around here who could, and would.

Glancing around, Desmond considers the room and then hesitates. Now that the letter is dealt with, he can see new shiny things, less important but still significant. A drawer in a writing desk. Chest near the side of the room. Something on the bookshelf. Hm. Might as well.

There is a purse of coins in the writing desk – he takes that. The book he has no idea about, it's written in a language he doesn't know, but whatever, Eagle Sense says it's important, so he opens it – to find it hollowed out, a bottle hidden inside it. Booze? No, probably not, there's a whole case of alcohol in the other room. Poison, maybe?

The chest turns out to be most interesting. There are weapons there – swords, daggers, throwing knives, a fucking _whip_. Curiously Desmond rifles through the weapons, wondering why a church official would even have them – confiscated items, maybe? There's one sword, which is about the right size and length – one-handed longsword, a lot like the swords Ezio used. That would do.

Strapping the sword in its sheath to his side, Desmond tests the blade, wondering about the inscription on it. Well, whatever.

Now, what else can he do around Târgoviște…?

* * *

 

Not understand a word of the local language, that's what.

He goes to the point of safety out of curiosity. It feels like what Assassin Headquarters might feel like, a place where he might get some help, so, a place worthy of checking out. It turns out to be a house of a very twitchy looking elderly woman in a simple dress, who demands a lot of things from him in a language he can't understand, and then, at his confusion, she draws him into her house, glancing around suspiciously. Then she questions him some more.

"I can't understand a word you're saying," Desmond admits. "Er, lingua Italiana? Alerabia? _Français_?" he tries, and she shakes her head, frustrated, waving a hand. Then she peers at him suspiciously, poking at his chest and asking questions.

Her house looks like a witch's house – she's tried to cover it up, but there's a chemical smell in the air and he can spot the hooks where dried herbs used to hang, the shelves where she kept potions before putting some plates on display instead. Desmond looks around, interested, and then looks at her, interested even more. Now what would a witch have that he might need, not knowing that he might need it? Something to fight _vampires_ with? Probably not. Poisons maybe? He got some from the church official's house.

"Hmm," Desmond says and looks at her. "Assassino? Um, Katil? Hashasin?" he asks, and then shows his arm – letting the hidden blade snap out of its sheath.

Her eyes widen a little at that, and a look of realisation comes to her face. She nods quickly and then grabs his hand, drawing him deeper into her house – into a backroom and then to a trapdoor.

"Asasin," she says and motions. "Arsenal."

"Oh, thank _god_ ," Desmond says and drops down. Below, there's another decoy room – a sort of mix between a witch's cellar and cold storage. The old woman bustles in after him on the ladder and then motions him in, opening a secret door and revealing a bigger chamber – a set of chambers, really, and opening leading into a sewer.

So, not a witchy house. An _Assassin bureau_.

"Arsenal," the woman says again, motioning him along. She's moving differently now, standing up straight, moving quicker, nimbler. She's not old as she appears – makeup, maybe? "Depozit de arme."

"Now you're talking my _language_ ," Desmond says, as he's show into a room with some pieces of armour, some weaponry. It's no main-hideout level of weaponry, but there's definitely some useful pieces there, some of which even fit with his clothes. "May I?" Desmond asks, motioning to one chest guard, and the woman motions him to go ahead.

The armour is covered in a layer of dust. All of them are, really – no one's been here to restock in a long while.

"No other Assassins here, huh?" Desmond asks, brushing his hand over a silver shaded chest guard.

"Ottoman," the woman says, making a face, and makes a move with her hand which obviously means something along the lines of _they all fucked off_.

"Really?" Desmond asks. "Why? Perché – quare – er, pourquoi?"

She seems to get the question, but he doesn't get her answer – it's long and vicious, and judging by the gist of it was that the Assassins of the Ottoman empire had a better standing, were stronger, and probably richer too. The woman curses a lot at them, judging by the sound of it. "Ishak Pasha," she says, and spits. Definitely not a fan.

"… lovely," Desmond says, giving her a look, wondering.

With the woman's help he puts on the chest plate, before adding in some shoulder guards, greaves. No bracers or arm guards, sadly, probably because they usually come with hidden blades and are thus not something you just have around. Well, the rest of the armour is still better than nothing, not the highest make maybe, not as pretty as the Italian equivalent, but Desmond does feel a little less naked. If there would be fighting, which there might be… he's a little better prepared.

The woman, after tightening the last strap, looks at him, asks something seriously – making a stabbing-with-hidden-blade motion with her hand. Who is here to kill?

"The bishop," Desmond says and glances around – it looks like there's books here, so, she can probably read. Quickly he takes the letter he'd stolen and hands it to her – maybe she can help him. If not…

She peers at the letter, and then says, "Ah," in understanding – even some satisfaction. "Episcop."

"Right – he's not here. Where?" Desmond asks, repeating it in all languages he knows.

"Greșit," the woman says, and hands the letter back to him, adding something he can't understand and finishing again with, "Greșit."

Right, Desmond thinks, making a face. Wrong city – that's always fun. "Grazie," he says.

He leaves her with some of the coin he'd stolen and wishes her well in all languages he can – she gets the gist of it, and seems satisfied, before waving him off. He gets the feeling that if she never sees him again, she will be both be relieved – and pissed off, which is not complicated at all, nope.

"There's something a bit off with this place," Desmond mutters, adjusting his new armour and glancing around. No sign of Dracula or his portals, so, if the guy is really watching, he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get him back. Alright then.

Now what? The bit of interest, maybe? Hmm…

* * *

 

For the first time doubting the wisdom of Eagle Vision, Desmond picks through the dirt in the side of the road not that far from the Cathedral. Something among the muck there is shining, golden and important – which is all nice and good, except the bit of muck looks like a place where people have been dumping garbage. Smells like it too.

"Eugh," Desmond mutters and digs his fingers into the muck, grimacing at the feel of it. There, under it, just – there. He pulls out a bit of something, considering it in and trying to brush it clean.

It's a bone.

A piece of a finger, or maybe a toe bone, small and blackened, covered with a shred of something rotten and… burned...

_Oh._

Desmond brushes the muck of the bone tenderly with his thumb and then looks up, to the trail of important golden bits he can see under Eagle Vision. 

Lisa Ţepeş died here, didn't she – she was probably burned here too. He'd thought that Dracula would've found her, picked up her remains, but… maybe not. The guy seems to have some… weird issues where it comes to dealing with things, so, somehow it doesn't surprise Desmond at all, that he didn't pick up his wife's remains, didn't bury her. That would be entirely too much like dealing with and facing her death.

Taking out a handkerchief, Desmond wraps up the bone gently and then gets up – to follow the trail in the darkness. It a bit like following a trail of downed fireflies – a bit of gold here, a bit of gold there…

Most of her bones he finds in a ditch, amidst a mess of burned bits of wood and cracked stone. It's all muddy and messy and disgusting, but the bones glimmer like gold as he gathers them up – stopping only for long enough to steal a bigger piece of cloth from a nearby clothesline, to bundle the bones in.

Gently laying the broken, fire-mangled skull among the bones, Desmond wonders if Dracula is really watching – if he knows what it is that Desmond is picking up. 

"I'll get you back to your man," Desmond murmurs, folding the cloth up. "I'll make him deal, and we'll put you to rest properly."

The bones don't answer, and with a sigh Desmond binds the satchel he'd made, and ties it securely to his waist.

Still no sign of Dracula or his reality-tearing portal.

Time to go check out the local vampire, then.

* * *

 

"Shit," Desmond mutters, considering the corpse at his feet.

The sense of the _bloody bit of importance_ had led him into a rundown part of the city, dirty and broken up with lots of hiding places among the slums and old rundown houses. Place Dracula wouldn't be caught dead in, he thinks – which makes the fact that he's pretty sure there's a vampire there all the more worrisome.

And now this.

It's a little girl, maybe eight, and it doesn't take a vampire hunter to see that she was killed and drained by a vampire – he can see the marks right there, on her neck. Never mind that she looks drained _dry_. Going by her clothes, how dirty and ragged they are, she'd lived on the streets and not in the best conditions, and the chances are that no one would even notice she was missing. Reality was shitty like that.

… but it's also a little girl who was killed semi-recently, and Desmond is pretty sure he knows which way the killer is. And he's also been consorting with a _vampire lord of legend_ for the past couple of weeks, so… this is awkward.

"Shit," Desmond says again, and considers his options. Leave it be, forget the girl, let her killer live to kill another day. He has a feeling that would be the option that would go down best with Dracula, letting his kin go scot-free and all that. But on the other hand… a dead little girl. If it was an adult person, he maybe could've given the vampire the benefit of the doubt – maybe the victim was a criminal, murderer, whatever, he could see that happening. But it's a little girl.

There is _no fucking way_ the girl deserved what she got.

Desmond leans his head back, despairing. And he and Dracula were finally starting to get along too.

"Fuck it," he mutters, and kneels down before the girl, moving to close her blind, glassy eyes. "I'm sorry, little one. I hope death is less cruel to you than your life was. Requiescat in Pace."

Then, cursing, sets out into the slums, to _hunt_.

* * *

 

The vampire isn't hard to find – Eagle Sense is all but painting the street signs for Desmond, blood-red and vivid. Whoever the vampire is and whatever their motivations are, it's not pretty – there are blood trails everywhere, splatters on the streets and smears on the walls – he even finds a bloody handprint, which Eagle Sense tells was left behind by his target. The bastard is messy. No way did all this blood come from the girl, either. A lot of it is older, days, weeks, months old. The vampire has been glutting themselves on the locals, it seems, and they have the table manners of a pig, too.

Finally, the trails lead Desmond to a collapsed building, and there to a trap door leading to a hidden basement. He can feel the vampire inside – he can almost _see_ them through the ground and crumbling brickwork. A glowing figure in the darkness of Eagle Sense, moving jaggedly about, turning left and right aimlessly. Then he can hear the vampire too, muttering something in Romanian.

Desmond has never seen anyone glowing so _red_ before. The sense of _enemy_ is so strong on the vampire that the things around them seem to reflect the malice and blood, painting the whole hidden chamber in vicious shades. There's a table there, chairs, candelabra on the table, a coffin. Of _course_ there's a coffin.

Desmond considers how to go about this. The vampire is in a closed up chamber, no other way in – no way to sneak up on them, it seems. Maybe drawing them out...? Yeah, that seems like the best option.

Glancing around, Desmond chooses a broken piece of wall standing near the trapdoor. Picking up a handful of pebbles from the ground on his way, he scales up it, crouching on the top of the broken bricks. Then, blade at the ready, he drops the pebble on the trap door – and then another, and another, until it finally gets a reaction.

The vampire is a female one, her face bloodstained and twisted as she bursts out, swiping at nothing with her long nails. She's wearing ragged, dirty clothes and she looks more like a monster than Dracula did, her fangs long and bared as she snarls at nothing.

Then she spots him – just as he drops down on her, and skewers the hidden blade right into her neck.

Never done that before in real life – he didn't expect the wet crunch of bone and flesh. It's not a pretty sound – but then, it's not really a pretty act, either, no matter how graceful Ezio always made it seem.

It's also not enough to kill the vampire. She writhes under him and then snarls, swiping at him, trying to claw at him – twisting around like something from the Exorcist. Right – a vampire. Gotta go for the heart.

Desmond leans back and grabs for his new sword, even as she reaches for him – he has to push her back down to keep her from trying to fucking _bite him_ , and in answer she grabs for his hand, trying to claw into his arm – and he has no arm guards. And then…

She _shrieks_ as her hands start burning.

Not looking a gift horse into its fangy mouth, Desmond takes his sword and puts it into the woman's heart, silencing her wails and twisting the sword around for a good measure. Once he's damn sure she's not going to get up and start assaulting little kids again, he stands up, backing away from her and from the stench of dried blood and filth on her.

Then, wary, he looks at his arm, hoping against hope that she didn't get him. She tore through some of the sleeve, and he _does not_ want getting infection in the 15th century.

She didn't get him – and his arm is _glowing_.

"The hell," Desmond mutters, cleaning the sword quickly on the last clean bit of the vampire's clothing before putting away. Then he tugs up the white sleeve and looks at his left arm – half expecting to see circuits. But it's not that.

It's the tattoo. His tattoo is glowing in vivid, angry gold, like some sort of a… neon light thing. It's already fading as he watches, leaving the lines of the tattoo familiar black once more, but it still kind of feels like it's… something. Like it's _doing_ something.

"What the fuck was that?" Desmond asks no one in particular, rubbing his hand over the tattoo. It feels normal, and his skin wasn't broken, that's a plus, but, seriously. What the ever-loving _fuck_?

There's a sound of glass tingling and Desmond looks up sharply to see the fabric of reality tearing again, as Dracula opens a portal. Desmond clutches onto his no longer glowing arm and meets the vampire's eyes from the shadows of his hood.

Dracula's face is inscrutable, hard to say if he's pleased or not. Desmond's bet is on _not_.

"Come through," the vampire orders, motioning with his hand, a very threatening sort of welcoming gesture.

"Are you going to attack me?" Desmond asks warily, pulling the sleeve back over his arm. "Because if yes, I'm good here, thanks. Your Bishop wasn't here, though – apparently he's in someplace called Greșit."

Dracula doesn't answer immediately, glancing between him and the dead vampire. "I will not attack you," he says, which isn't really all that reassuring, not with the tone of voice it's spoken in. "The sun is rising, Assassin. Come through."

Desmond glances away and, yes, the sun is rising somewhere other side of Târgoviște. Great, how hopeful – and in Dracula's castle it would be night again. At this rate, he'll end up with a vitamin D deficiency among other issues.

"... fuck it," Desmond mutters, and leaving the dead vampire lying on the ground, he goes through.


	7. Chapter 7

Over his many centuries, Dracula has enjoyed the service of many. Most of those who had served him, who still did, were not humans – mostly they were creatures of the night, those cast away by humans on the basis of religion, and their aversion to sunlight. But there had been humans there too, Magicians, Necromancers, Devil Forgemasters, or humans he bound into his will, to keep their skills, whatever those were, to his side. Occasionally, for all their weakness and filth, humans did produce gems in their midst – geniuses of some talent or invention, who were worth more alive and in his service than they were dead in the ditch.

Desmond Miles, Dracula is not yet sure about. For one, the man shows him no reverence and little respect – and that respect is directly tied to Dracula's abilities, not his will or wishes. And perhaps, to his trauma, and Desmond Miles' desire to solve it, like his sorrow is a puzzle for the man to figure out. The man shows no proper deference and admiration. So why not kill him?

Because the _intuition_ the man possess all the more apparent, lacking a veil of groveling to hide it. Whether the man claims the title or not, he does _See_ more than most, more than any vampire Dracula has met. And he is not sycophantic about it, doesn't use what he Sees to curry favour or insinuate himself to Dracula's side. There is a great power, great influence, in being this close to Dracula, but Desmond Miles, if he even _knows_ , cares not about ingratiating himself closer to him. If anything, he uses what he knows to do the complete opposite.

 _"That makes you kind of a shitty husband, you realise?"_ indeed.

In light of that, his offer to murder in Dracula's name was… interesting, and Dracula had much looked forward to seeing what he would do, and how. Should he make true on his easy promises, should he fail, should the promise turn out to be nothing but a flimsy excuse to escape… whichever it was, it would tell Dracula something of the confusing man.

He had not expected what he saw.

A clearly symbolic jump from a height that should have killed the man. An easy-as-breathing break in to the house of the Archbishop of Târgoviște – Dracula isn't even sure the man _knew_ whose mansion he'd so raided. The realisation that the letter he found, the official re-assignment of the former bishop of Târgoviște, was the one the man couldn't even _read_. The visit to the house of what Dracula first thought was a witch, and who then proved out to be something far more interesting and worrisome. Then, a collection of _bones_ across the city. And finally, the assassination of a feral vampire.

No, Dracula had not expected it at all.

"Say something," Desmond Miles demands, shifting his weight from one high-heeled foot to the other, nervous and likely ready to jump out of the window at Dracula's slightest move. "If you're pissed about the vampire, just tell me. I mean, you can shove it, she killed a fucking _kid_ , but –"

"I care not," Dracula answers. "Creatures like her bring hunters upon the rest of us, and whoever made her was a careless fool who should have never turned her. How did you find her?"

"Vision-based psychic ability," the human answers. "I could see her."

Dracula arches a brow. "Across the town?"

"From the cathedral roof."

Hm. Then the climbing of the cathedral had more meaning than his symbolic fall from atop its spire? "And made it your mission to kill her, when you'd promised me something else?"

"I already got everything out of Târgoviște I was going to, at the time – and you weren't doing your portal thing. So I figured, _over there is something interesting, probably a vampire, lets go check it out_ ," Desmond says and cocks his hips slightly, resting a hand on them. Wearing a woman's coat is making him theatrical. "This is what my people do. We find _interesting things_ in the cities we enter and we deal with those things."

Dracula leans back in his chair, considering him. "Your people. The Assassins."

The human shrugs, not explaining further.

"… Or is it Vampire Hunters?" Dracula asks, quietly.

"Hey, where I come from, there are no vampires," Desmond says and then considers it. "Though if there were, I bet we'd do vampire hunting on the side, now that I think about it. Especially with vampires like her. Assassination of serial killers is kind of a… thing."

Right. "Show me your arm."

The human looks at him from under his red-brimmed hood and does nothing, his arm not moving at his side. "I offered to kill an asshole for you," he says. "That doesn't mean I will jump when you tell me to jump."

Dracula bares his teeth, and with a snort Desmond Miles takes the sack of bones from his waist and holds it out for you. "Here," he says.

"What?" the vampire demands, giving it a look of distaste. "What is this?"

"The bones of your wife, oh lord Dracula," the human says flatly. "I collected them from the gutters of Târgoviște and brought her home."

The man could not have caused a greater pain even had he taken a wooden spike and driven it into his heart. Dracula stares at the sack of linen, already stained muddy brown and black near the bottom where the muck that covered the bones had seeped out. The bones of his wife. He had not realised – he had not – he thought Desmond was collecting human bones for a spell, perhaps, for an enchantment, not – not this.

"You – cannot know they're hers," Dracula says, his voice choked.

"I can actually," Desmond says, still holding the sack to hers. "They're hers."

"She _burned_."

"Human bones take a stronger flame than just a pyre to burn. It's not all of them," the human admits. "A lot of them were missing and I couldn't find a trail of them. But it's most of them."

… _No_. "No," Dracula says out loud and looks away. "That is not her – she is gone. Put it away."

The human looks at him, and Dracula can feel his expression – can feel the sympathy and coldness of it, cutting like ice. "These are the remains of your _wife_ ," he says. "Would you prefer them littering the filthy corners of Târgoviște?"

"That is _not my wife_!" Dracula snarls, feeling like every breath he's drawing is drowning him. "My wife is _dead_ and _gone_ , that is _not her_!"

"Fine, it's what remains of her physical form," Desmond answers, flippant and a little annoyed. "It's still something of her, and after months of lying forgotten in Târgoviște while you sulked, she's back home and you are going to deal with her like a normal human being –"

"I AM NOT HUMAN!"

Dracula lashes out, not fully intending to – there is a terrible feeling bubbling in his chest, unnameable and all-consuming, to lash out seems the only way to deal with it. Only, between him and his target there is a linen sack of bones, which rips under the assault of his nails. The tearing of the fabric seems unnaturally loud in his reading room – and then there's a rain of bones on the stone floor, clink-clank of little bones and clatter of bigger ones – a crack, as a skull falls at his feet.

Desmond's eyes are wide as he holds the torn sack in place – Dracula's breathing catches, as the bones scatter.

He has seen thousands of remains of thousands dead, some at his own front door from time when he surrounded his castle in conquered enemies. In the castle itself there are rooms full of nothing but bones, walls lined with grinning skulls, each one a victory over someone he hardly even remembers now. Death himself is a frequent visitor here.

And yet, he's never seen anything so terrible, so utterly horrifying, as the skull at his feet. He can still see the burn marks on it. Falling on the floor had cracked the dome of it.

Dracula can't breathe, he can't – he can't think. He can smell it now, the fire, the pyre, he can feel it – he can't –

"You fucking idiot," Desmond Miles says, quiet, almost defeated, as the vampire swings to his feet and backs away, knocking down the armchair behind him in his haste to get away. As Dracula turns to flee the suddenly stifling room, he can see the human kneeling down to gently gather the bones up again, tender and respectful.

* * *

 

It takes the descent into the deepest cellars to clear Dracula's head again. There, in the midst of the tanks and caskets and bubbling systems that keep the stored blood active and alive, he can finally breathe again. And yet, his hands shake. They shake, like old human man's afflicted with nervous disease, he cannot seem to make them stop.

He keeps seeing it, imagining it – her face, beautiful and perfect, her golden eyes, burning, burning, flesh tearing from her skull and leaving it bare, leaving it at his feet, grinning blindly at him, dead, dead, dead… He knew she was gone, he knew she was dead, she knew nothing of her body remains – he knew that, he _knew_. But he didn't know how she might look, after, how the fire might mangle her, how – how something of her might remain. Wasn't it the point of a pyre, to burn all away? Why did something of her remain?

And why, why did he not look? Even now he cannot imagine looking at her like this, when the mere frame upon which her flesh sat, remains. That charred sum of remains is _not her_ , but it's some of her. Not all of her, but all that remains of her.

"That is _not_ all that remains of her," Dracula snarls to himself, tearing his hands through his hair. "She was more than that, there is more than that left of her, there is – there _is_ …"

What is there of her, but a hollow she had left in his soul? And he prefers the hole, prefers the absence – he would rather fill it with nothing, than with charred remains. That sum of bones was _not_ her. It was not.

Dracula imagines Desmond gathering the bones, taking them to the mausoleum, or maybe finding his way to the accursed chapel and laying them upon its altar. Desmond would not leave the bones on the floor, not after all the care he'd put into gathering them. And why did he even have to do that, what right did he have to bring them here, why – why would he do that…?

Dracula snarls at nothing and then looks around sharply, for something, _anything_ else to think of. There are the tanks of blood, divided by their intrinsic qualities, kept alive and constantly moving by machinery and spells. There's not much of them left – most of the containers are empty now. He had not filled them in… in many years.

There are still many bottles left here, filled with various types of animal blood. Pig, cow and chicken mostly. He can see where Desmond had taken the bottle he'd brought to him – there, his footsteps had left marks upon the dust on the floor.

The man's vision is powerful. To see a vampire through a city, to find an important letter he could not even read, to find this room despite all the protections in place – to pick up the scattered bones from all the others that  litter the streets of Târgoviște… and oh, there are so many bones there.

The irony of human justice upon the thing they consider accursed – in chasing after the accursed, they tend to light the lightest things on fire. Witch burnings rarely burn actual witches, only humans, and in their quest to stop vampires, they kill Vampire Hunters.

Dracula stares at the bottles and then reaches to grab one marked chicken – the fewest bottles there are, upon the preservative racks. The text on the label is in her hand.

When he met Lisa for the first time, he accused her of being a witch, too – of wanting to paint chicken blood on people. Later, they'd laughed about it. Later, she'd presented him with the collected blood of all the chickens she'd made dinner for herself, and they laughed some more. The blood had spoilt, of course, she could not do the preservation charms upon the bottles then, but… it had been amusing.

Oh, his wife. His beautiful, shining wife, like a sunbeam made into a human, a thread of gold woven into shape, so full of light, so full of laughter.

Dracula clutches onto the bottle, not daring to open it – and that is how Desmond Miles eventually finds him, approaching him with a tentative tone to the clip of his heels.

"Will you not leave me be?" Dracula demands. "Throwing my loss in my face at every opportunity – will you not stop?"

The human says nothing for a moment, stopping behind him. "I guess not. Not until you feel better," he admits, and Dracula glances at him over his shoulder, grimacing. The human rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, and smiles wryly. "I'm kind of stubborn, and you need someone here."

"I don't need you," Dracula growls, low.

"Okay, then the rest of the world needs someone to be here for you," Desmond Miles shrugs and looks at him. "And to stop you from destroying the world, which is kind of an issue for me. So no, not going anywhere."

Dracula bares his teeth and looks away. "I could kill you."

"Then do it," the human says. "You have the ability. What are you waiting for – get up and kill me. If you really want to, it shouldn't be hard for you, right? Just fucking do it."

Dracula doesn't move, his fingers tightening over the bottle's neck.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and falls blessedly silent, for once.

It's a long, drawn out moment of tension before Dracula speaks. "What did you do with the bones?"

"I put them somewhere safe," Desmond says calmly. "Not telling you where, though – just so you're forced to live with the knowledge that they're somewhere close, and you can't do anything about it."

The vampire lets out a hiss at that.

"We'll talk about it again once you're ready to bury her properly, and to say goodbye to her," the human says, dismissive of his ire. "Lisa seems like a patient woman – she can wait for you to get your act together. And if you don't, well. The bones are still going to be there."

It's the strangest, most vicious form of torture Dracula has ever heard of. "What do you want from me, human?"

Desmond thinks about it seriously for a moment. "I guess I just want to see you pick yourself up," he says. "I think it would be a sight to behold."

"And in the meantime, you offer to kill for me," Dracula mutters. "How does that feature in your quest of seeing me pick myself up?"

"Closure, I guess," the human muses. "I'm kind of hoping to redirect your revenge away from all of humanity. Though at this point I think the better option would be to find this bishop and drag him here, force you to kill him yourself. See where that takes us."

"Are you _experimenting_ on my grief?" Dracula demands.

Desmond looks at him levelly. "Whatever works," he says. "The fact that you're _letting me_ is kind of telling, too. I think you want to be better, on the inside – you just don't know how to get there yourself. So yeah, I am going to prod and poke at you until we get somewhere. And I don't think you have as big a problem with that as you think."

The vampire looks away – and then down to the bottle he is holding. The bottle Lisa made, inscribed with runes and made last. He can still remember her embarrassed laughter, her slight shuddering unease at the rune work. _"It's really not something for me, I think – magic. I want to be a doctor, not a witch."_ But for him, she'd done spells. For him, she'd made bottles of blood, serving them along with her own meals, and together they'd sat with wine glasses in hand, enjoying their meals together. Like a man and a wife.

She would want him to be better – she always did.

"You found a letter – show it to me," Dracula says, not looking up.

"Say please," Desmond says in answer.

Dracula gives him an incredulous look, and the human arches a single brow, daring. Dracula scoffs. "I give you leeway," he says. "But you are not my equal."

The human's other brow joins the one at his forehead, just as incredulous. "You really are a self-important dick," he says. "Now watch me jumping for you." Except he does no such thing – instead he gives Dracula a middle finger, turns on his heel, and walks away, the tails of his coat swaying as he goes.

The vampire stares after him, considering catching him with a spell, but… it seems like too much of an effort.

Instead he looks at the bottle, brushing his thumb over the lapel. _Blood of Chicken,_ it reads in her perfunctory, simple hand, _Collected in Dâmbovița, Stored in 1469._

* * *

 

It's days before Dracula sees Desmond again, and it's unintentional when he does. Though the vampire lord eventually returns to his reading room, he cannot bring himself to stay there, not with the memory of bones scattered on the floor. So he wanders around the castle instead, and everywhere he seems to find some lost bit of his love, stored in the castle's surface.

A painting of her on display, a note she'd written and which had slipped from her hand, a mark on the floor where she'd accidentally splashed acid, and a million, million memories. There, they'd danced on one autumn night when she missed society of humans, before they'd moved to Târgoviște. There, he'd held her against a wall, angry at some slip of hers he doesn't remember anymore, and she'd answered it with a kiss. There, she'd stood up to an impetuous undead servant who questioned her right to be there, at their lord's side. There, she…

He'd sent all the servants away – some back to hell where they belong, some back to their graves, some simply… elsewhere. When they'd moved out of the castle, it had been empty of people, bar for Adrian, who had chosen to stay, to use the castle to learn of the world, to travel. Back then… back then Dracula had even entertained the concept of inheritance. Of one day leaving it all to his son, their son. The idea that Adrian might outlive his parents, that something at all would outlive _Dracula_ himself.

He had such dreams, then.

And then he comes into the ballroom, and there is Desmond, fencing with air. He's holding the silver-plated sword he found in the Archbishop's house, and it is then Dracula realises the man doesn't even know what he picked up.

He uses it like any sword – and with skill. It's not as graceful as fencing, Dracula realises – Desmond uses brute force unfitting the dramatic clothing he wears, hacking and slashing at air without mercy. The human might look like a sword dancer, like an actor on a stage – but he fights without theatrics, only practicality. All his imagined counterattacks end in killing blows.

He is angry, Dracula realises. Frustrated, and working it out. Strange, he had not even realised Desmond could get frustrated.

"Do you want to know what the woman told you? The one who gave you armour?" Dracula asks, and Desmond's moves falter, but only for a moment.

"An olive branch, from you?" Desmond asks, glancing at him while swinging the sword to his side. "It's a _miracle_. Yes, please."

Dracula folds his arms. "She is the only Assassin left in Târgoviște – the others left, not much after their Mentor was burned at the stake for witchcraft. It happened fifteen years ago – when the Purges in Wallachia begun. It sounded as though the Mentor she spoke of was one of the first Hunters to be burned at the stake."

Desmond's sword lowers at that. "Purges?" he asks.

"The Christian church's Purge on Dark Magic and Witchcraft," Dracula says, wry and derisive. "The very first victims were the known practitioners – the old families of Vampire and Werewolf Hunters. Belmonts, Lecardes, Danasty, Renard… formerly sanctioned by the church in their fight against the _forces of darkness_ , they were either burned out of their own homes or banished. It sounds as though your Assassins were victims of this Purge as well."

The human frowns and then puts his sword away. "And then?"

"Then, without a reliable, suitable leader, the remaining Assassins moved out, to join the Ottoman Assassins and serve their Mentor, Ishak Pasha," Dracula says. "Of whom the woman you met had very low opinion. As she did of the Assassins who left – she called them weak, traitors, _deserters_. You, I gather, are the only other Assassin she met in many years."

"Right," Desmond says. "That's… that's unfortunate."

Why, because now he had no people to call upon? "Your cult seems old," Dracula comments. "You knew she'd be there."

"No, I didn't know there were Assassins here, but I assumed they were around, somewhere," Desmond agrees. "We've been around for… centuries. I didn't know that Wallachia had its own Mentor – not every nation does. Sad to hear they were put to death, that… that happens way too often, really."

Dracula hums. "If you did not know she was there, how did you find her?"

"Vision-based psychic ability, I told you," Desmond says, and then takes out the letter he'd stolen from the Archbishop's office. "Here."

The vampire accepts the letter with a nod, glancing through it. "The Archbishop re-assigned the man to the Cathedral of Greșit," he says. "Where he might practice his branch of faith as he sees fit, and content himself with whatever rewards it might give him."

"Well, that sounds telling," Desmond muses. "You think he pissed off the Archbishop?"

"Perhaps. From what I know he is not a beloved man, our bishop," Dracula muses and rolls the letter up, looking at the human instead. Desmond looks at him expectantly, but he is certainly not standing at attention – should Dracula make it an order, he will likely see the back of the man again. "Would you show me your arm, if I asked?"

"Ask me and we'll see," the human says, snorting.

Dracula gives him a look. " _Please_."

Giving him a cheeky smile, the human rolls up his left sleeve, and shows him the bare skin – and the tattoo.

It's not a crucifix, there is nothing in the tattoo that even resembles a cross. There are no runes there, no enochian inscription, nothing – no writing Dracula can see. All there are, are lines tattooed in black, which curl and form spikes. In a rather simplistic, tribalistic way, the lines suggest the face of a woman, smiling and mysterious.

A saint, perhaps? Dracula hums and steps closer – Desmond holds his ground, lifting his chin slightly and staying still as the Vampire reaches for the arm. The moment his fingers come within an inch of the tattoo, it begins to glow – and it is _vivid_ , almost oppressive, the shine of Holy Light that bleeds through the black and makes the whole tattoo radiate with power.

"The _fuck_ is that?" Desmond asks, staring at it while Dracula draws his fingers away, hissing at the burn of it. "The Hell is it doing that for?"

"You have a powerful Holy symbol tattooed on your skin, and you invoke _Hell_ over it?" Dracula asks, amused despite himself. "Your faith in your God must be _very_ strong, for it to be this strong. If I did not know better, I'd assume you were _ordained_."

The Assassin looks at him confusedly. "What?" he asks and peers at the tattoo. "Um. What?"

"Is it not the face of a Saint, the representative of Holiness of God?" Dracula asks, irreverent. "Such things, with enough faith, serve as well as crucifixes, for Holy symbols. Though rarely this strong."

Desmond looks at him incredulously and then looks at the tattoo. "No, it's not a Saint, it's…" he squints and then looks up at Dracula again. "So, wait, Holy stuff actually… works? Because of _faith_?"

Dracula scoffs. "Belief and intent are what makes magic," he says. "The faith of an organised religion makes for powerful magical objects. Of course they deny this, ascribing their power to God, and God alone, as if millions of people believing in a single thing is of no consequence. Only humans could produce such an engine of magic, and then deny it's source of power."

The human peers at him and then looks at the tattoo. "Huh," he says.

"So, which Saint is it?" Dracula asks, wryly curious about what man such as Desmond Miles might believe in, to whom he might pray to.

"It's not," the human says, tracing the lines of the tattoo, their glow fading now. "It's… the Goddess Minerva," he says. "I think."

… of the Roman pantheon? "You… _think_?"

Desmond shrugs and then frowns. "Could be Juno too. The tattoo idea came to me in a dream, and the tattoo artist kind of went off with the design," he says and pulls the sleeve back over the arm. "So, I'm not sure which one it is. Could be both."

Dracula arches a brow at that. Two goddesses of pantheons no longer worshipped – and for Desmond Miles, they work like a silver crucifix blessed by the Pope himself. How… peculiar. "You are a man of a strange faith."

The human snorts. "Tell me about it."


	8. Chapter 8

"So, your son sleeping under Greșit and all that. What does it actually mean?" Desmond asks, while Dracula works on the floating magic mirror, shuffling through scenes to select a place to drop him at.

"What I mean is what I said. He sleeps under the city, in the catacombs left behind by my castle," Dracula answers, not looking at him. "I dealt him an injury and he sleeps to recover from it."

"So, not just a shitty husband, also a shitty dad, got it," Desmond says and then smiles sweetly at the look Dracula gives him. "I got some experience with shitty dads myself," he says and wipes a thumb over the scar on his lips. "You'll get little sympathy from me there."

"He tried to attack me," Dracula answers coldly.

"Why?"

Tellingly, Dracula's expression tightens.

Desmond smiles at the lack of further argument – the vampire lord is _learning._ Good. "Right, so, your castle leaves behind catacombs?" he asks curiously, turning to look at the mirror and all the scenery flashing by. Greșit looks a bit like Târgoviște, it seems – spiky roofs and all.

Dracula hums. "When in one place long enough, yes. The castle grows its own roots after a while. Greșit was a seat of my power, once, and the catacombs became a permanent part of the land. Humans came later and made it their city, building upon the foundations of the catacombs – using them as their sewers."

"Huh. So your castle automatically creates the sewers?" Desmond asks. "That's _awesome_. No, really," he says earnestly, when Dracula gives him an incredulous look. "Do you know the state of hygiene and waste management these days? Instant sewers is the best thing I've heard. Do they come with water management systems?"

Dracula eyes him like he's not sure if he's serious – but Desmond is deadly serious. He swam through the canals is Venice as Ezio and saw the state of the old sewers in Rome, how rundown and unused they'd became. Plus, Shaun had given him nightmares about dysentery and cholera and diarrhoea and _ugh_.

"In either case," the vampire lord says, turning back to the mirror, "Adrian sleeps, and it is unlikely he has recovered yet. The catacombs are still protected by the castle's mechanisms and monsters – he is safe there, safer than he likely would feel here. Leave him be."

"You think I'd go find him?" Desmond asks and Dracula sighs at him. The Assassin grins – yeah, he totally would've gone to find him. "Alright, I'll leave – Adrian – sleeping. Your kid's name is Adrian?"

"Yes," Dracula answers and glares at him. In the mirror, there's a rooftop view of a medieval city, early in the morning. "What is it?"

"Nothing! Just – expected a bit more grandiose name, for your son," Desmond admits. "Adrian the son of Dracula. Hmm."

"So did my court," Dracula mutters and shakes his head. "You have your portal now – so be gone. Bring me the bishop."

"Yeah, that's the plan," Desmond agrees and looks at the mirror. "Oh, aww, you're putting me on a rooftop!"

"Just go," Dracula says and waves him at the mirror. "Before the sun rises."

Desmond bows and steps through, to find that Dracula had not only dropped him off on the roof – he'd put Desmond on the roof of a cathedral. "Nice," Desmond says, balancing on the sharp ridge and looking back at the portal. "Out of curiosity, can you go into churches?"

"Not if they're Holy," Dracula says and waves his hand to close the portal. "And fewer churches are, than you'd think."

Desmond watches the tear in the air closing and then looks at the city of Greșit. It looks a bit grey – there's some snow on the rooftops and grey trails of smoke are rising from the sharp little chimneys, up and towards a grey, cold sky. A lot of crosses in the place – and most of them look new, as if they'd just been attached to the rooftops recently. Interesting.

"Methinks someone is worried about creatures of the night and all," Desmond murmurs, looking around and wondering. "And that someone is not feeling very secure, huh."

So what does make something that's supposed to be holy, like a church… _not_ Holy? Unbelievers, maybe? Heresy? Some unpleasant implications there, if so. And if the church is an engine of _magic_ , does that mean a Holy symbol is actually _magical_ symbol?

Rubbing at his arm, Desmond glances around until he spots a climbable spire and then does just that, hauling himself nimbly up on the highest point in Greșit as he'd done in Târgoviște. There, feeling Dracula's gaze in the back of his neck, Desmond crouches upon the cross there and takes in the city through the Eagle Sense. 

No vampires in Greșit, it seems – but his target is there, marked by a golden thread of importance and _vindication_. There are other things too, though not as many as in Târgoviște. Greșit is smaller. There are some interesting gateways, like fast travel points in Rome and Constantinople, probably leading into the catacombs. Places to shop, one which might sell him arms even. No medicine seller, though, no Assassins sadly, no wise women. There is… something else though.

It kind of feels like an allied faction. Local thieves guild or courtesans maybe? Is prostitution legal in Wallachia? Hmm. Going after the bishop immediately would probably mean going back to the castle immediately, too. The day is brightening, and Dracula didn't mind his sidequesting that much before, so… he can probably take his time.

He'd check out the allied faction, first, and see where that got him.

Standing up, Desmond looks down until he spots a safe place to land – some bushes, really? Well, Eagle Vision says they're good, and it hasn't actually led him astray yet. Still, Leap of Faith is called what it is for a reason. And what's life without a little risk.

Desmond stands, spreads out his arms, breathes in – and jumps.

* * *

 

There's a caravan of people in Greșit, huddled near the outskirts, just inside the walls. They hang around wagons with blue covers and blue tents, around cooking fires and loosely erected campsites. Romani, Desmond thinks at first, but the colouring and the… _atmosphere_ is different. The men and women of the caravan are just sitting around, eating their morning meal and talking – there's no games, no music, no entertainment, nothing. They're just sitting in sombre discussion. The Romani of Constantinople at least were a bit more active.

Desmond watches them for a while, trying to get a sense of them. No weapons, and no outwardly suspicious moves. Strange for his Eagle Sense to ping on them – they remind him more of the scholars of Altaïr's time than any of the allies Ezio met and made. A whole new, hitherto unknown faction of potential allies he probably can't speak the same language with. How exciting.

Nothing to it but try.

Desmond approaches the blue-clad people as the sun rises higher above the city, catching their attention and making some of them tense up and stand in wary attention. The whole place seems to get on its guard, so they're not expecting friendly visitors. That's telling. There's some murmuring between them, some interested motioning at his clothes, but of course it's again all in Romanian, and he can't understand a word.

So, back to this. "Hello, I don't suppose you speak English?" he asks and starts trying out languages, "Parli Italiano? Alearabia?" trying all he knows until something sticks.

It's, sadly, Ezio's very awkward French and Latin, which catches some interest, and quickly an older man steps forward, saying in French, "Welcome to our caravan, friend – judging by your speech, you are no more from around these parts than are we."

"No, can't say I am," Desmond agrees, eyeing them curiously. "Desmond Miles, I'm here on an – errand."

"I am the Elder of Codrii Speakers," the old man says, motioning to the others. "We too are here on something of an errand – though perhaps not the one you are engaged in," he says and looks Desmond up and down. "It has been some time since I have seen such livery, but I daresay I recognize the style and colours. You are of the Assassin Brotherhood, yes?"

Desmond arches a brow. "You know about us?"

"Before the Brotherhood left these parts, we had some dealings with them, though very rarely," the Elder says, wryly. "We wished to record their stories, bloody though they were, and the old Mentor refused most vehemently. It was very unfortunate, what happened to them."

"... Huh. I'm sorry, you have the advantage of me," Desmond admits slowly. "Who are you people?"

"You do not know of us, but you came to find us?" a young blonde woman asks, also in French, while stepping forward.

Desmond shrugs, looking at the old man expectantly. The man hums, thoughtful. "I suppose you have not heard of us, then, coming from other lands. No matter – we are keepers and seekers of knowledge, the recorders of stories. We keep oral record of history," he says and nods to Desmond. "In the case of your Brotherhood, we knew of some of your effect upon history and wished to learn and memorise their deeds, but the Assassins refused – saying that their marks upon history were best wiped from record the moment they were done. They refused to even talk to us."

"So you're scholars?" Desmond asks, curious. Memorise? Oral record?

It's the blonde woman who answers. "Yes – but we do other things also. We help people, wherever we can, wherever help is needed," she says and then motions to herself. "I am Sypha Belnades."

"Pleasure," Desmond says, nodding and wondering. Now, why might he need to know a bunch of scholars? Dracula's castle is full of books, it's all the scholarly activity he can handle just trying to find books there he can actually read. He can't even use these people to hide amongst them or anything – their colours don't match. And he's rather fond of the reds, really, switching to blue would just make him sad...

"So what is it – your errand here?" The old man asks, watching him. "Are you in need of help?"

"Oh – well. I'm here to kidnap someone," Desmond says and then, as they all tense up, adds quickly, "not any of you, mind. I just came to check you guys out, because – it felt like a thing to do."

"You are aiming to commit crimes?" Sypha Belnades asks, wary. "Why? For pay, or –?"

"Hopefully for the safety of the human race," Desmond mutters and shrugs. "It's not really your problem, don't worry about it. So what's it that you're doing here? What's your errand?"

The Speakers exchange an uneasy look, glancing at him warily.

"Hey, I told you mine, least you can do is tell me yours," Desmond points out.

"That is not the least we can do," Sypha says, arching a brow. "The least we can do is nothing. And as Speakers, speaking _is_ the most we can do."

"... Yeah, okay. It's a figure of speech. Tell me anyway, it's only polite."

The Elder considers him and then says, seriously, "Are you aware of the events that took place in Târgoviște, three months hence?"

Desmond turns to him. Since Eagle Vision led him here... "Dracula vowing to end the world? Yeah, I heard something about it," he agrees.

The old man nods. "We Speakers think that he will deliver on his promise, if given a chance," he grimly. "And should he succeed, the consequences will be beyond devastating. Dracula certainly has the power to make true on his promises, terrible though they are."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees wryly. "Yeah, he probably does, huh. What's that got to do with you being here, though? That was in Târgoviște."

"The threat was aimed on all Wallachia," the Elder says apologetically. "Not merely at Târgoviște – though that, admittedly, would have been better."

"We're here following a story of Dracula and his defeat," Sypha says, drawing Desmond's eyes to her. "Legend goes that Dracula will be defeated by a Soldier sleeping under Greșit. We are here to see if the story is true, and if the Sleeping Soldier might be awoken early. If he can, and if he is as strong as the legend says… perhaps there will be no bloodshed at all."

Desmond looks between them, expecting more, but apparently that's it. "Huh," he says. What's sleeping under Greșit is Dracula's kid, though. "Um, you believe this story?" he asks, glancing around. The other Speakers are listening to them, but not getting involved - few are sitting back down, though no one is eating yet.

"Yes," Sypha says firmly. "We Speakers have secret knowledge, carried over by generations. We believe this story to be true."

"Right – um. Any chance I could take a look at the story?" Desmond asks, a bit awkwardly, wondering if he's making these people nervous. Since they know about Assassins… maybe. "Just, you know, for details?"

"These are not stories that are written down," the Elder says gently, glancing at the others as well and then motioning openly - maybe to calm them down a bit.. "We do not write things down – we memorise them, and pass stories as oral traditions only. To write something down is to finalise it – and to make it subject to manipulations and rewrites. In our minds the stories remain as they are and beyond the influence of others."

Desmond arches his brows at that. "Huh," he says. "Really? I mean, doesn't human brain kind of _suck_ at memory storage?" he should damn well know – his _genes_ remember things better than his mind does. Half the shit he knows these days is stored in his DNA, not in his neurons. "Also, isn't that like playing telephone? Um, I mean," he stops. "Like passing a rumour down a chain – it's never going to be the same on the other end, right?"

Sypha looks a little affronted by that. "Not with us – we remember complete records," she says firmly. "That is the power of the Speakers."

"We are gifted with a wealth of memory," the Elder agrees. "We never forget."

"…okay. That's – that's neat," Desmond says. Hell, what does he know, vampires and magic are real, and he's got genetic memory of probably hundreds of thousands of people, who's he to judge. "More power to you. Anyway, the Sleeping Soldier – you should probably leave him be, for now."

"What?" the Elder asks, his eyes widening slightly.

"You know of the Sleeping Soldier?" Sypha asks, quickly. She's not the only one leaning in eagerly. They all know French, huh?

"No idea, but I know who's sleeping under Greșit, and you should leave him to it. He's still recovering," Desmond shrugs. "And you'll likely make _someone_ very pissed off, if you wake him up before he has healed up."

The Speakers exchange looks again. "Then – when?" Sypha asks. "And what do you know – tell us, so that we may add it to our record."

"I have no idea," Desmond says and rests his hands at his hips, glancing around at the other, curious looking Speakers. "And no. Don't think so – I don't really know you people or what your thing is, so. I'm not going to tell you just like that."

"Well – perhaps we can do something for you in return, and you can do something for us," the Elder offers quickly. "A story for a story, perhaps – we know many things. If you have a question, something you want to know… perhaps we can help you?"

Ohh, so, they're like human databases? Desmond has his doubts about the efficiency of their method of storing information, but… what the hell. He does have a question – two actually – which have been quietly gnawing at him. "Two stories," he says. "And I'll tell you something in return."

"That doesn't sound fair," Sypha says and folds her arms. Judging by the looks of the other Speakers, the stubborn expression on her face isn't an unusual sight - even the Elder looks amusedly resigned. "Two stories for two stories."

"Not sure I actually have stories for you, but… sure, I guess," Desmond says and shrugs. "Two stories for two stories."

"We can be the judge of whether or not you have stories to tell," Sypha says, seeming satisfied. "Two for two, then, Miles."

"Yes, I think that sounds agreeable," the Elder says, nodding, and motions Desmond to follow him. Around them the other Speakers, with the show mostly over apparently, move to return to their morning meal. "Come, we will sit and talk in my tent – it is warmer there. What are the stories you are interested in hearing?"

"Where the vampires come from, if you know anything," Desmond says and squeezes his left hand into a fist. "And anything you know about the goddesses Minerva and Juno."

The Elder gives him a curious look. "Hm, strange are the things you look to learn, but I daresay we can tell you something. And in answer, we wish to know of the Sleeping Soldier," he says and considers. "And a story of Assassin Brotherhood. A true story."

"Sure, okay," Desmond agrees. "But bear in mind, I'm no historian. There's no telling if what I know is accurate. But yeah, I can spin you a yarn about the Brotherhood, sure."

* * *

 

It's several hours before Desmond leaves the Speakers' camp, having gotten some of his questions answered, and having told them that their Sleeping Soldier was Dracula's half-human son, who'd tried to stop his father and who'd been cut down for it.

"Probably if there is anyone out there that can fight Dracula, it's him," Desmond tells them before departing. "But from what I've heard, he needs time to recover. The catacombs here are keeping him safe, but if you start poking around too much…"

"We might bring attention upon him, yes, I see," the Elder says, nodding to the other Speakers around the camp. They have returned to whatever they're doing, eating, cooking - cleaning up the cooking, at this point. "We will depart from Gresit, then, and return once there is no other choice – once the promised year is coming to its conclusion, we will try again."

"It wouldn't do to wake the Sleeping Soldier early," Sypha agrees. "While he's still injured."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, wondering whether he'd kept the Elder and Sypha from their dinner. And maybe if he could get some dinner somewhere near, actually. "Probably a good decision." He'd not told them _where_ his information came from, but… he's glad they're following up on it anyway.

"What will you do now?" the Elder asks, turning to look at him.

"What I came here to do," Desmond says, glancing around in the camp. It's nearing noon, and the air is much warmer now - it's going to be a bright day. It's doubtful that Dracula is looking to bring him back just yet. "I am going to investigate a bit and then kidnap the Bishop and deliver him to Dracula's doorstep and hope the surly bastard will be satisfied tearing into him, instead of all of humanity."

They gape at him, surprised. "You – you think you _can_?" Sypha asks.

"I've done worse," Desmond shrugs. Second hand, maybe – but experience is experience, never mind the source. "Besides, from what I've heard, the bastard deserves it. I'll know for sure once I see him, but… putting Dracula's wife to death is kind of crime enough, in my books."

"You know where Dracula's Castle is?" the Elder asks thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Desmond lies, and shrugs. "Guess if I fail at appeasing Dracula's thirst for blood, you with the Sleeping Soldier stuff will serve as a backup, huh? Though, honestly, I kind of hope it won't be necessary at all. I have high hopes about my way." And how sad would it be, for Adrian and Dracula to fight _again_?

"Well," the old man says, a little awkward and guilty. "I am not one to advocate for the death of any man. Violence is not the way of the Speakers, but…

Sypha snorts softly. "It is not as if we were seeking the Sleeping Soldier to make peace with Dracula," she says. "And the bishop is as evil a man as I have ever seen. Satan himself would be jealous of his spite and malice – the man is _sanctimony_ embodied."

Desmond arches his brows. Nice. "I better get to it, then," he says and smiles. "Thanks for the stories. They were… _enlightening_."

"And thank you, for yours," the Elder says and bows his head. "Perhaps one day we will meet again, Desmond Miles, and more stories may be exchanged."

Yeah, and maybe by then Desmond will know which ones actually _apply_ to this world. Because just going by the stories about Juno, his world… this ain't.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dracula had no faith in anything other than himself, and so it had been for hundreds of years. He'd seen the rise and fall of many faith systems over the years and over his travels – he'd met vampires originating from regions where whole different sects of gods had been worshipped, who's seen those gods disappear. Christianity, Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, Islam – though strong now are nothing new, and there had been religions like them before and there would be again. And seemingly each year they make new rules and laws, claiming them to be the will of god, only for the next set of religious leaders to turn them over again.

Gods might very well exist, or perhaps it is the faith of humans that creates them, springing them from nothing as illusions and turning them into all-consuming monsters… Dracula cares not. What he knows to be true is this – false or not, gods exist, only by the power of the people that believe them, but _Hell_ is real. It is a scientifically proven certainty of the universe – Hell exists.

Granted, it's not the pit of pain and torment humans now claim it is, and thought the name of it is drawn from the Christian religion for the lack of a better one, it serves none of the Christian Hell's purpose. Not intentionally, at any rate. Hell only… _is_ , and by the mere act of existing, it is Hellish.

But there are stories even among vampire kind, ancient, old stories, older than Dracula, perhaps older than even the oldest among his kind.

Resting his hands on a book, Dracula watches through the Carpathian mirror, as Desmond moves through Greșit. The mirror blocks out sunlight to some extent, but it's still a bright thing to be looking at, threatening to blind him as he gazes upon it. If he did not know better, he'd say Desmond was doing it on purpose, staying in sunlight to wear down his vision. And yet, Desmond had gone into shadow, into the tent of the Speakers, and let them speak freely about Dracula's destruction, knowing that he was watching and listening, knowing that he could, that he might, strike the Speakers dead. Bravado, or disregard for the Speakers' safety… or trust?

Dracula strokes his fingers over the title of the book, _The True Knowledge and Lore,_ written by a vampire. One of Lisa's favourites among his collection, though she didn't believe a word of it.

 _"It's a nice idea though. Everyone likes a good creation myth,"_ she said and then asked, so bright-eyed and trusting. _"Where do you think vampires came from?"_

 _"Oh, there are theories,"_ he'd told her _. "None that would hold up to scrutiny. There are some things even the immortals do not know – some truths that are even older than are we. Truth to the matter is, no one knows. Perhaps we have always been here."_

In one of the stories it was the first wife of Adam, Lilith,  that birthed the race of vampires and other night creatures. In another, it was Hera, who did it out of jealousy and anger. In yet another, the night creatures were the children of Hel. In all stories, it was a _woman,_ from whom the vampires originated.

 _"Oh, let me guess – most of the stories were written by men?"_ Lisa asked when learning this, amused.

_"Don't ascribe your human prejudices so freely upon us – we are older than such beliefs and hold to none of them. As it is, these stories were written by vampires – not men."_

Dracula leans back in his chair. Desmond is standing in front of a grand house now, eyeing is facade consideringly. Elsewhere in Greșit, the Speakers are preparing their caravan for departure – with plans to return later, return and awaken his son for the task of killing him. Elsewhere in Greșit, his son sleeps and recovers. These are things Dracula should do something about.

Instead he leans his cheek to his long-nailed hand and watches as Desmond begins to scale a wall, hauling himself up with graceful agility that rare few humans possess. Desmond Miles is, or perhaps could be, an excellent servant, an excellent killer, to any master. Imagining him calling anyone that, however...

"Perhaps," Dracula murmurs at the image in the mirror. "Perhaps the Goddess of the Night sent you to vex me."

Desmond of course can't hear – he moves into the house, easing open a window and silently slipping inside. Dracula's vision follows him as he crouches on the floor, looks around and then moves.

It is hardly the first time Dracula had watched an assassin at work, but there's a surprising mastery to Desmond's moves, how swiftly and expertly he avoids the servants and attendants while making his way through the grandiose house and towards his goal. How he knows where to go, Dracula cannot tell. By Sight, perhaps. He's very keen on it – serious and concentrated in a way the vampire hasn't seen him be.

Truth be told, had he wished to, Dracula could have reached out and taken the bishop himself. For him and his powers, it would have hardly been difficult, and the bishop had only made it easier. None of the crosses around the house bear Holiness, and the cathedral of Greșit is faithless. In that, the Speaker woman was right – the bishop is sanctimonious, and so is his church. He'd turned it from the service to his God… to his own service instead. Judging by the feel of it, it hadn't taken long at all for the congregation to lose faith in their church.

Humans. They create such great things together. Religion is one of the greater powers on Earth – even to this day, Dracula hadn't been able to rid his castle if its accursed Chapel, because it still had the faith of those who built it, lingering. And yet, what do humans do with this power – what do they do _to_ this power? At every opportunity humans spoil it and abuse it and stain it with their own agendas and filthy desires. They do terrible things in its name. Crusades and Purges, Inquisitions and Hunts…

Dracula closes his eyes with a sigh. The very idea of such powerful belief and delusion is tiresome.

"There you are," Desmond murmurs in the mirror, and with the sound of movement and clatter, Dracula opens his eyes.

Desmond had found the bishop's office, had stolen behind him, and was now strangling the man. It's expertly done, the bishop is incapable of making a sound, and as the man begins to struggle and kick, Desmond drags him back and away from the desk, leaving him with nothing to kick against to make noise.

Dracula watches, expressionless, as the man of God chokes, clawing at Desmond's arm around his throat and trying to break free but failing. His skin turns red, his eyes bulge, anger and alarm gives into desperation and hopelessness… and then the man's eyes roll back and he does limp.

Without letting the bishop fall, Desmond moves down to one knee and then rolls the unconscious bishop to his shoulder, standing with the man hanging off him. "Now," the Assassin says to him, looking around. "Would you please open a portal, or do I need to get out of here first?"

Dracula could make him work for it, enjoy the spectacle of watching Desmond trying to escape the mansion with the bishop in tow… but he's already weary of all of this. Prolonging this would only make him more so.

Better get it over with.

Dracula lifts a hand and draws the portal open, leaning back in his chair to watch Desmond noticing it. Without further ado, the Assassin steps through, bringing the bishop with him.

The portal closes and Desmond looks at him, expectant.

"... Honestly expected more of a reaction," Desmond says and then without any sympathy drops the unconscious bishop on the floor, leaving him in a heap of white cloth and outstrewn limbs. "Behold, the killer of your wife "

Dracula beholds. The man on the floor looks pitiful – old and weak and vile. Most men become vile with age, growing crooked and disturbed and disgusting. It is as though they accumulate toxins from the world that corrupt them – and perhaps they do.

Dracula looks at him, the killer of his wife, and he feels… nothing.

He should feel rage, hatred, vindictiveness, he should want to get up and tear the man apart, or throw him in one of the castle's many torture devices and watch him suffer… delighting in his pain and death.

And yet, he feels nothing.

Dracula looks up to Desmond, who's peering at him worriedly.

"Didn't quite make it, then," the human murmurs. "You're already past the bargaining phase and heading into depression, huh?"

Dracula sighs. "What now?" he asks.

"Five stages of grief," the human says and steps over the bishop. "Denial, anger, bargaining – depression is the fourth stage. I was kind of hoping to see you deal with the blame while still in the bargaining phase."

"What are you spouting now?" Dracula asks, with a kin to annoyance, which only makes him that much more tired of all of this. "I have not bargained with anything."

"You're telling me that your plan to kill all humanity didn't have a seed of _and then it will be alright, then I will feel better_ in it?" Desmond asks and stands in front of him. "How _do_ you feel?"

"As though I should strike you down for speaking to me this way," Dracula answers, flat.

Desmond rests a hand at his hip, obviously not believing that. He says nothing – only waits.

"I'm tired, Desmond," the vampire admits and leans back, looking away, at the cold fireplace. "All of this tires me."

"And none of it excites you, or interests you, or makes you feel anything," Desmond guesses. "Yeah, that's depression, alright."

Dracula frowns a little at that – again remembering that he'd never let anyone but his wife talk to him in such a way, and yet not caring that the man does.

Desmond is in possession of a Holy Sword, he carries a bottle of pure Holy water, he's made connections with Assassins and Speakers – Speakers, who out loud spoke of their plans to end Dracula. And in answer Desmond told them of his son, guided them in their future act of finding him and conscripting him to the duty of killing his father. It's all cause for great concern, it's all cause for suspicion and ire and anger.

And yet...

Desmond looks at him worriedly and then turns to look at the bishop, who's now waking up on the floor. Dracula leans his chin into his palm and watches, idle and listless, as the human preacher realises where he is and in whose presence.

"Satan!" the bishop gasps and then makes the sign of the cross – an empty gesture, lacking all faith and power. "In nomine Patri –"

Desmond looks at Dracula expectantly. Dracula looks back and then closes his eyes. The bishop's prayers do nothing, they move nothing.

"You are an abomination!" the bishop cries in Romanian, standing up to full height and trying to invoke some strength from within himself. "An aberration in the Kingdom of God! I cast you out. In the name of Jesus Christ, I banish you back to Hell where you belong –!"

Desmond tilts his head. "What is he saying?"

"Nonsense," Dracula answers in his tongue with an annoyed sigh. "Kill him, will you?"

Desmond considers him for a moment and then looks at the bishop. "You don't want to do it yourself? I brought him here so that you could do it yourself – for, you know, closure."

"I don't care," Dracula sighs and covers his eyes with his fingers. "Killing him will not bring my wife back. I only want him dead and out of my sight."

"That's… almost healthy," Desmond says quietly, sounding almost sad.

Dracula doesn't answer, doesn't open his eyes. The bishop is still croaking his religious nonsense, it's starting to become grating – "No, what are you doing, stay back! Stay away from me, demon!" But thankfully it's not for long. There's a _snickt_ of a trigger releasing, and the bishop goes silent with a single gasp of pain.

Dracula doesn't open his eyes until after Desmond has gone out of the chamber and then returned, the bishop no longer within his sight.

"In the spirit of honesty," Desmond says, walking around him to the other armchair. "I might have inadvertently lied to you."

Dracula follows him with his eyes as he sits and makes himself comfortable. "Concerning what?"

"Future," the human says, stretching out his legs. "This isn't my world at all. The history is different. In my world, there was probably never a plan to wipe out humanity. So if your plan would have worked, I wouldn't actually know."

And he's the reason Dracula had ever started having doubts.

"Bold of you to admit it," Dracula says, his tone low. "You want to save humanity, and yet you admit this? What's to stop me from enacting my plan now? What makes you think I wouldn't?

Desmond looks at him. "The fact that you haven't flown into a rage yet."

"I made a promise," Dracula says dangerously. "I _swore_ I would end human strain upon Wallachia. Should I fail to deliver on it, I will be seen as weak. And I am not _weak."_

Desmond says nothing to that, watching him inscrutably from under his hood.

Dracula looks away, scoffing, and for a long time they are quiet, sitting there, saying nothing. Outside, the day begins to give way to night, unseen from here, where it is always night.

"Do you want to see Lisa's remains?" Desmond asks tentatively.

"Absolutely not," Dracula answers.

"Okay," the human says and is quiet for a while longer. "Do you want to have dinner? This time it might even survive long enough to be eaten."

"No, I don't want dinner."

"Okay, what _do_ you want, then?"

"I want," Dracula says slowly, "to be alone."

For a moment he's certain Desmond will argue and stay – part of him even wishes he would, so that Dracula might have something to feel irritated about. But Desmond doesn't argue, he sits up silently.

"I'll bring you some blood later," the human says quietly and then he's gone, leaving Dracula alone with his thoughts. And Dracula thinks…

Nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

 

The rage he felt seems now like a distant thing, faint in the fog. Same goes for his scientific curiosity, which, though he tries to invoke it, refuses to be piqued. Desmond might be a proof of many theories hitherto unknown and unproven, and yet Dracula cannot bring himself to care.

He should call upon his generals. Visit Hector and Isaac and bring them to his service. The year is passing, he has less than eight months left now – he should begin the preparations for war. The army would need to be crafted, summoned and made ready. His plans…

He would bring the castle to Târgoviște and release the night horde in all its numbers upon it, and they would bring it to ruin. Every man and woman and child would be bled, every building burned and torn asunder. The great cathedral he would destroy himself, tearing it brick from brick in the name of his love… it all seems like a dream now, a nightmare, from which he's woken up exhausted. He should revel in the idea of war upon humans and all the blood spilled…

But what difference would it make? What would it change? His love is still gone.

Lisa is still dead.

Time passes. Hours and then days. Desmond comes and goes, putting a glass of blood in his hand, waiting for him to drink it, and then leaving again. Sometimes he speaks, taking about everything and nothing. "... The ugly thing is, humans were created to be slaves. I guess it doesn't surprise you, we are just food for you and all that. But originally the Precursors made us to be their workforce, their slaves. So I guess it isn't that big of a leap that they made us into their food too. Heh, wonder what that makes me, having so much of their DNA…"

But Dracula soon losses the track of what he's saying, his thoughts wandering aimlessly in the empty corridors of his mind. Then he's alone again, staring at the fireplace. Sometimes there's a fire there, usually there isn't. He doesn't have the will to light it.

Dracula drowses in his chair. Usually he dreams of nothing, but sometimes he dreams of Lisa. He dreams that he returned home earlier and saved her from the pyre and they escape together to the castle and she turns to him and laughs, "Imagine what would have happened if you weren't here!" before turning to Adrian, who looks incandescent with joy as he welcomes them home.

Dracula wakes to the cold in a dark room, all alone, shivering.

Without thinking, he gets up and goes to find Desmond.

It's a long search through empty halls, long stretches of walking that seems to go on forever, of echoes. The castle seems bigger than before, unbearably so, and altogether too empty. He can't stand it.

He misses their house in Târgoviște – and it too is gone.

Desmond is in the kitchen, sitting by the oven, drinking wine as he waits for whatever he has in the oven to finish cooking. The human is still wearing his fine coat and hood, but the hood is pushed back to reveal his short hair. It's growing longer.

"Dracula," Desmond says, looking pleasantly surprised. "Hey. You hungry? I'm making a – _thing_ of rice and pork. Should be interesting. You want some?"

"I'm not hungry," Dracula says, hovering by the doorway. Desmond looks at ease – but also worried. He's been looking worried for these past few days, but he hasn't _done_ anything about it.

Dracula's nails dig into the wood of the doorframe.

"What is it?" Desmond asks.

"I tire of this," Dracula says, low. "This numbness. You mean to make me better, yes? Then do so. Fix me, Desmond."

It's not what the human was expecting. He leans back in his chair, as if from a gust of surprising wind. Then, slowly, he sets his wine glass down. "There isn't a quick fix for loss or depression," Desmond says, tentative, and stands up. "But you're not usually the depressed type, are you?"

Dracula bares his teeth at that. "You said there are five stages. What is the fifth?"

"Acceptance."

Dracula's tightening fingers tear out a sliver of wood, and he looks at the doorframe.

"At a guess, you're nowhere near there yet," Desmond says, leaning his hip against the table and watching him thoughtfully. "What do you say to change of scenery?"

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't left this place for months," Desmond says. "And everything here keeps reminding you, right? So, a change of scenery, let's go somewhere else, surround ourselves with new things, learning new things. Could bring your mind off things."

"And where, exactly, would you have us go?

"Florence?"

Dracula scoffs. "Florence? Sunny Florence, with its churches and priests and crucifixes, its thousands of monks and nuns? Are you _insane_?"

"Maybe," Desmond agrees easily. "It would be different though. And _exciting._ "

"You only want to go for yourself," the vampire accuses him. "For your own reasons."

"Well, partially, yeah. But also to show it to you," Desmond says. "I think you would like it."

"A place of human riches, filled to the brim with crosses. What on _earth_ is there to _like_?" Dracula asks derisively.

"Art," Desmond says. "Invention. Architecture. And maybe interesting people, too. People are making some advancements there, making changes – some of it might be interesting. And if not, well, there might be a conspiracy too, which I might be interested in ending before it can actually accomplish anything."

Dracula eyes him dubiously. "You are looking to change the history of a world that isn't even your own? How do you know anything will be the same?"

"I don't, that's half of the fun. And what's even the point of it, if it's not at least a little bit risky?" Desmond shrugs and grins. "So? Want to go to Florence with me?"


	10. Chapter 10

Florence. The only place Desmond has missed more is Monteriggioni – and maybe Venice too. And Rome. After Monteriggioni, it's really a toss up between Florence, Venice and Rome which one he misses the most, but Florence is really up there. There's just a general sense of… of childhood perfection, maybe, which made it special. World before everything went awry, kinda, when everything still had the chance to be perfect and nothing hurt. When Ezio still could be innocent. For a given value of the term.

Desmond can feel the time ticking away in the back of his head, with Florence. He'd not sure exactly when Ezio's father and brothers were put to death, can't remember which time of the year it was, it's all a bit of a blur – only that it was in the year 1476. Which is only a couple weeks away now, really – time passes fast, when you're stuck in a vampire castle. If it was late in the year, then that would be fine, there's probably no hurry – but if it's early, like in the first week of January, then he has only so much time to make changes. So in that sense, Dracula is right – Desmond _does_ want to go mostly for his own reasons.

But if it was just that, he'd prefer to go alone – but it's not. If there's a chance of bringing Dracula out of his funk, Desmond doubts it'll be found in Wallachia. Wallachia is, to Dracula, basically an enemy state, now – he himself is behind the enemy lines, whether he sees it that way or not. The guy might claim he put his castle on a mountaintop just to be alone and to deter visitors all he wants – but there's an element of security to it too. It's the only place where the castle can't really be attacked. Place where Dracula can have as many depression naps as he wants, mostly without worry.

Desmond can only imagine the underlying stress of it – of the necessity of hiding your entire house in such a cold and desolate place. Overall the whole thing just makes him sad. Makes him want to take Dracula somewhere _warm._

"I am a vampire, in case you have forgotten," Dracula says derisively. "Heat and sunshine aren't qualities I look for in my place of residence."

"Oh, come on," Desmond bemoans. "I can see the sunny part, sure – but there's nighttime everywhere, Florence doesn't have daytime all around the clock. And you can't seriously prefer the cold here, it's miserable! Wind howling at all hours, the _draft_ –"

"Are all as I require them."

"Bullshit. Half of this place is freezing – who'd _require_ that?"

Dracula's objections are half-assed at best, really – Desmond thinks if he'd asked for it, Dracula might open a portal for him, very little questions asked – getting him to go through it would be a different thing.

"Your asked me to fix you, well, this is how I want to start," Desmond says. "Take it or leave it."

Dracula casts him a look – it's funny, how his tiredness and listlessness makes his eyes shine brighter, like they didn't get the memo about the man's general state otherwise. Might also be the shadows under the eyes, making the red seem brighter by contrast.

"Italian peninsula is one of the worst places on earth for my kind," the vampire says coolly. "We left those regions long ago for a good reason. Give me one rational reason – which has nothing to do with your own _hedonism_ – why I should go."

"Well, for one, just the mention of the place seems to be bringing you out of your mood, a bit," Desmond points out. "If it's so dangerous, going there would keep you on your toes. Best thing you can do when depressed – keeping active. Here, you're just sitting around staring into the fireplace, that's not very healthy. You need to – well. _Live_ a little. Get out. Do things. I think it'd be good for you."

"I said one _good_ reason, and you give me a handful of mediocre ones," Dracula accuses.

Desmond sighs. "Fine," he says. "Do it because I'm asking you?"

The vampire casts him a look and for a moment says nothing. Desmond is kind of expecting another rebuttal, but after a while Dracula looks away. "Very well," he says. "But if it comes down to me raining hellfire upon that sun-cursed city, on your own head be it."

"I have high hopes for your sense of patience," Desmond says, not even trying to hide his giddiness. "What will happen to the castle in the meanwhile?"

"... How long do you expect this to take?" Dracula asks dubiously.

"No idea," Desmond admits. He'd kind of hoping for a longer stay than he had in Târgoviște and Greșit though – he needs it after this cold. And Florence would have some proper food to, he's certainly looking forward to that.

"The castle will remain here, unless our… stay is prolonged. In that case, I might send it to Hell, where none but I may enter it."

"... Hell," Desmond repeats. "Whoa. Overkill much?"

Dracula sighs. "Do not ascribe human beliefs upon it. It is another dimension, full of chaotic, festering magic, not a pit of suffering for sinful souls. It is what allows this castle to travel. Movement between Earth and Hell."

"Still not over the fact that you can just pack up your whole castle and go," Desmond mutters. The whole thing is _wild._ "I'll take your word for it."

* * *

 

You'd think that a visit to another country would take some preparations, but no. Dracula opens a portal, timing it to midnight in Florence, when the city is dark bar for the few lights in the windows and the moon, half-shrouded in clouds.

Desmond's heart fucking _throbs_ at the sight of Florence rooftops. "Can you put us on top of the Campanile di Giotto? The bell tower – there?"

Dracula moves his hands over the mirror, drawing on it with his nails, and the scene shifts. "I cannot step on it," he says, disdainful. "Whoever rings the bells _believes._ The cathedral is also out of the question."

"Aww. Some place else then – I can climb the bell tower on my own later," Desmond says and watches as Dracula works on the mirror. "If Holiness and magic are both belief and intent barred, why can't you just… _believe_ yourself immune?" he asks then, curious.

"There are spells for such things, but it doesn't work as you assume," Dracula says wryly. "Belief and intent is what draws magic – but one needs structure to aim it and shape it. Spells and runes and such. There are shielding spells, which may give vampire immunity, and my own belief takes me far… but faith in god is also belief applied on the _structure_ of the religion that worships the said god, and their symbols and rituals. Holiness of churches is thus a spell, in a sense."

"So it would be your shielding spell against the spell of organised religion and all its faithful followers," Desmond says. "Huh. I see now why you call it powerful. Damn."

Dracula moves his hands over the mirror, and it seems to somehow _land,_ the picture settling on a rooftop of a winding city block, overlooking the Duomo.

"There," Dracula says and motions him to go ahead.

Desmond doesn't need to be told twice – he jumps through the portal, landing on the roof titles with the definite sense of _coming home._ The air is instantly warmer – not hot, exactly, it's not even 21st century room temperature, but definitely warmer than on a frozen mountaintop. There's a gentle wind, and it carries with it the smell of the city – stone and dirt and wood and _waste._

No sewers in Florence, alas.

Dracula steps through the portal behind him, swathed in a black cape with an upturned collar like the glorious cliche he is. While Desmond scans the rooftops for archers, Dracula closes the portal behind them.

"I could get used to this form of travel," Desmond admits. "So handy." It's weirdly nostalgic too. Traveling long distances in the Animus was all about the fast travel too.

"Hmm," is all Dracula has to say to that. "We are here – now what?"

"Now I need a viewpoint to take a look at the city," Desmond says. "Then I'll know where to go. Wait here until I climb the Campanile – it shouldn't take me –"

"Does it have to be a structure, for your Sight to work?" Dracula asks, looking down at him. "Or is it just the height?"

"The height – or actually, I think it might be the things in the way. Getting high up didn't work at your castle, since it's all vertically stacked," Desmond admits. "Too many obstacles in the way, so I couldn't see much. But in the cities it's generally that the higher I get, the easier it is to see."

"Very well," Dracula said. "I will give you your viewpoint."

And then he grows wings.

He just _sprouts out wings from nowhere._ They appear, red and vaguely batlike and just _enormous,_ reaching above his head even when folded, and then taking up most of the rooftop when spread.

"Oh holy shit," Desmond murmurs, wide eyed.

"Are you afraid?" Dracula asks, wry. "You can face me in battle without fear, but _wings_ frighten you?"

"Sorry to say, it's not fear I'm feeling," Desmond says and coughs. 

The vampire lets out a noise that's almost amused and holds out this hand. Desmond reaches for it automatically with his dominant hand, and Dracula sighs. "Your _right_ hand, Desmond – unless both your arms are tattooed?"

"Er, no, it's just the left one," Desmond says, awkward, and takes Dracula's hand. The vampire's fingers are cool – big shock there, who would've guessed. "What are you going to do?"

"Keep your left arm to yourself," Dracula says, flares out his impressive wings – and then they're going up.

It's not like in the movies, Desmond doesn't float up with the power of movie magic like Lois Lane at Superman's side. Dracula just _fucking drags_ him through the air and above Florence, his wings kicking up a storm of gusts of wind around him and leaving Desmond skidding against turbulence. It's like getting his ass kicked _by air._

Then Dracula stops and the momentum nearly sends Desmond flying – only the iron grip Dracula has on his wrist keeps Desmond from being flung into the air like a rag doll.

"Oh, you _asshole!_ You could've dislocated my shoulder!" Desmond shouts up at him over the flapping of Dracula's wings. "And my wrist!"

"You have your viewpoint, Desmond, do you want to use it or do you want me to drop you?" Dracula asks, looking down on him.

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Desmond asks dubiously. "Ha, I was right, coming here was totally a great idea."

He's not about to tempt Dracula's mood swings though, and quickly activates his Eagle Vision and looks down.

They're about five hundred feet above the city, twice the height of the Campanile – easily high enough to see pretty much all of the city. It's a bit weird to do it while hanging in someone's grip by his already aching wrist, but Desmond doubts Dracula would've much liked him climbing to crouch upon the guy's head, so… it would have to do. Hard to concentrate like this though, especially with the wings beating at each side of him.

But he can _see_. There, the house of the Auditore. There, Santa Maria Del Fiore. There, Leonardo da Vinci's workshop – he exists and he's in Florence! There, his targets, five of them in the city – probably mostly the Pazzis. There are – differences though.

The Auditore don't live in the villa he remembers, but in Santa Maria Novella district, on the outskirts near the river. Leonardo's workshop is closer to the Arno too, rather than in the centre of the city. There is something else too, much further north in San Marco district, a familiar blood-red feeling. There's a vampire in the city.

"Well?" Dracula asks, impatient.

"Hang on for a moment," Desmond says and narrows his eyes. These are the things he needs to check out, but where should they _go_? They would need a secure place, Dracula would need a place for the daytime, so where…

His senses key in on… the vampire.

"Huh," Desmond murmurs and looks up at Dracula. "Say, if there was a vampire here, how would the meeting between you two go, roughly speaking?"

"I am one of the oldest vampire lords in these lands – if they know what's good for them, they will respect me and treat me accordingly," Dracula answers, firm. "And if they don't…"

"Yeah, okay," Desmond says, waving a hand at that and then pointing. "Over there's a vampire, and they feel like a potential ally. Let's go make friends, shall we?"

Dracula doesn't answer – he just dives down. And turns out descending in the tow of a winged vampire is actually _worse_ than ascending had been.

* * *

 

It's La Rosa Colta.

The brothel is in the same place it had been when Desmond had been reliving Ezio's life, and it looks more or less the same, too – decorated with red buntings and drapery and flowers, letting all the world to see what the establishment inside is and what services it offers. It looks good. It's also harbouring a vampire. One of the guests, maybe?

"It's a brothel, Desmond," Dracula says while tucking his wings away. He does not sound impressed. "You brought us to a human _brothel."_

"Are there vampire brothels?" Desmond asks with interest, glancing up.

They're standing on a roof opposite to the La Rosa Colta, and Dracula is glaring at him.

"If there a place more mired in human filth than a _brothel_ , I have yet to see it," Dracula says, dangerously. "And I refuse to set foot upon it."

"Listen to you, being all affected! Coming here is definitely making you more active," Desmond says, pleased. "Brothels aren't so bad, and they're best way for unattached women without families to make money, in these times. Don't knock it off," he says. "Besides, our vampire is in there."

"Feasting upon the prostitutes, no doubt," Dracula says, dismissive, but considers the brothel further. "Not a bad strategy, in such a city. If one must live in a place covered in churches, a brothel might very well be the safest place to acquire sustenance. They are all excommunicated, after all, and it is not as if men of God often visit such places. Not truly pious ones, anyway."

"Actually, I know of a brothel which is run by a completely pious nun," Desmond says and grins at the look Dracula gives him. "She was also an Assassin, though, so dunno what God might've thought about her. This place is also run by an Assassin, actually, so I doubt the vampire can find an easy free meal here," Desmond snorts. Though…

It is a different world, and there are some differences between this Florence and the one Desmond knows. Maybe Paola doesn't run this place, maybe she isn't an Assassin. Though if there was ever someone in Florence who might offer blood as service to vampires, it would probably be Paola. A side business between all the prostitution and murder. Hm.

"Anyway," Desmond says, and goes to vault over the roof edge. "I'm going to go and find out. You coming?"

Dracula looks like he would very much rather _not_.

"Come on, it'll be fun. Different, definitely, since it sounds like you've never been to a brothel."

"I _have_ , actually," Dracula says wryly. "And I found little in the experience to commend. The men were filthy, the women diseased, and the whole place was drenched in the worst stains of _humanity_."

Desmond looks at him. "Did you _eat_ the people there?" he asks warily.

"Perhaps," Dracula agrees, smiling somewhat meanly.

"Dick. Don't eat people here," Desmond says, and before Dracula can answer, he throws himself off the roof, down to the extruding part of a balcony, and then drops to the ground level. Above him, he can just _sense_ the sigh Dracula sends after him.

Then the vampire is behind him, a streak of blackness in the otherwise rather nice looking and colourful street. "I assure you, those days are behind me," he says wryly. "I have a much more refined palate these days."

"Sure," Desmond says. Well, Dracula hasn't eaten him so far, so… "Okay. I'm going to go knock on the door now and find us a friend," he says, and quickly straightens his clothes, tugging at the lapels of his coat. "Hopefully."

"If you must."

Desmond grins, and goes to knock on the door. Dracula hovers behind him like… well, like a vampire, which isn't very subtle, but the woman who opens the door doesn't even seem to notice. Probably because, even while hovering, Dracula kinda blends into the shadows. And the courtesan looks to be half asleep.

"All rooms are booked," the sleepy looking woman says, not really even looking at them that closely. "No more service, come back tomorrow."

"We're not looking for service," Desmond says, offering her best of Ezio's manners, smiles and tone of voice and all. "Might the Madame be awake and free, at this time?"

The courtesan rubs at her eyes and takes him in again, his clothes, his hood, cape, everything. Her eyes widen a little with recognition – and then she sees Dracula, and her face goes a little blank.

Dracula, who's found within himself a petty asshole, apparently, smiles at her – teeth and all.

"Y-yes, just – one moment, please," the courtesan says, and slams the door shut.

"Now, let us listen for the cries for the guards and priests and pitchforks," Dracula says sarcastically. "As she fetches the closest crucifix and a fist full of garlic, and someone in the backroom breaks a table leg for a stake."

"That's… oddly specific. Personal experience there, Dracula?" Desmond says, giving him a look. Dracula rolls his eyes and Desmond grins. "She recognized me, which means there's definitely Assassin ties to this place, that's good. I think we're good on the calling for guards part."

"I thought the owner of this establishment _was_ an Assassin?"

"Well, in my world she was. There are some notable differences between worlds, here," Desmond admits.

Dracula hums, eyeing him. "If things are different, why bother changing the future at all?"

"Because it's the right thing to do?" Desmond asks and grins wider at the look the vampire gives him. "Personal investment, then. I've got family hereabouts – ancestors, really. And in my world, they went through some… horrible things. I'm gonna try and help them if I can."

"Ah. Family bonds," Dracula hums and looks away, his face expressionless. "I see. So that is why we are here? Out of your family obligation?"

"I… wouldn't call it an obligation," Desmond says slowly, and tries, honestly tries, to define the relationship he has with Ezio. In reality he doesn't have one, Ezio doesn't even know he exists here, he barely knew Desmond existed back in his own world. Hell… Ezio might not exist here himself, which would be just…

Well, something to think about once he went to check up on the Auditore family.

But what would you name a relationship between a descendant who'd relived their ancestor's life, and the ancestor who knows nothing about it? Is there a way to define it? Ezio is family, yeah, and through him so are all the other Auditore, and Desmond _loves_ them more than he can actually comprehend, but how do you define…

Actually that's it, huh. That's just it.

"I love them," Desmond says and shrugs. "So I'm going to try to do right by them."

Dracula glances at him, his expression curiously blank. Then he looks up as the door to La Rosa Colta opens, and light shines onto the otherwise darkened streets. At the doorway, there stands a familiar looking woman – only… maybe not.

It's Paola, dressed in a very similar dress to the one she wore when Ezio knew her, her makeup perfect and her face beautiful. The only difference is the dark red lace choker she has very strategically tied around her throat.

And the fact that she's a vampire.


	11. Chapter 11

Dracula had never spent much time in the Italian peninsula. The region had for as long as he can remember had the tendency of being overzealous in their religion, covering their cities in symbols and carrying with them a plethora of Holy items. Italian cities have patron saints, larger Italian households often have their own chapels – it is as though the people had chosen a reasonable amount of worship and then quadrupled it, twice over. People invoke their God over near everything, crossing themselves on a regular basis, and it has an effect.

They, with the amount of sunlight the region suffers and how much garlic they shove into their foods… Of all the vampires who had lived or traveled in the region, none seemed to enjoy the experience, often stating that it was as though they were a target of a hunt, and the land itself was after them.

As such, Dracula had some impression of the region, of fearful people huddling by their churches, praying over every little thing, scared by the shadows. He knew of the art, something of the architecture, but it couldn't be lovely, he thought, not with such worship. In Wallachia the Church had airways been a terrible cudgel to frighten people with, with promises of hell and pain and damnation if the people didn't do exactly as their bishops and priests demanded of them. In Wallachia churches and cathedrals are imposing, forbidding structures where the simple people of Wallachia went to contemplate all their sins and flaws and how they deserved all the misery in their lives because it was as their God Willed It.

Religion sickens him, in the best of times, and zealous religion does so even more. Therefore, Florence with its churches and faith could be nothing but _miserable_ , its famous cathedral nothing but a fortress of divine fear in the middle of it. This is what he thought… before.

And now this.

"Ah, I see," the vampire woman says, looking at them. She's shocked – a lesser vampire, young, likely not even a century old. Weak. But though she's surprised, she moves on from it quickly – and whether she recognises him or not, she doesn't let it show either way. "You better come in then – welcome to La Rosa Colta."

Desmond moves in ahead of him, and Dracula briefly considers opening a portal and going back to his castle.

Then Desmond glances after him and arches his brows, and with a sigh Dracula follows him inside – into the _brothel._

Should his court see him now…

Inside the brothel smells surprisingly clean – like roses, more than anything else, really. The smell originates from vases around the entrance hall, set with both fresh and dried roses – likely placed there strategically to cover worse scents. The room is clean otherwise too, however, no piles of trash in the corners, no rats scurrying about, no stains, the carpets are vibrant with colour and clean.

"This way, please," the vampire woman says, motioning for them to follow. "We have a full house tonight, and patrons might be heading out anytime – we can speak in a better comfort and privacy in my lounge."

Her lounge is not very large, but it is comfortably furnished with divans and cushions, with fewer flowers but clearer air. There are cabinets displaying curiosities in the room, and all the windows are heavily curtained off.

There is a faintest scent of blood here. Human blood.

"I apologise for my poor hospitality – I'm afraid I am not stocked for the visit of a vampire nobility," the woman says, going to one of the cabinets and opening it. As she does, the image of foreign curiosities in its window is proven to be only that – an image. Inside, the cabinet holds small bottles and tools. "But I daresay I can offer you a drink at least – I have here a lovely brunette, nineteen years old. I find her blood quite refreshing. Would you like some?"

Dracula sits while Desmond looks around with interest. "You collect and store blood?" he asks, begrudgingly curious. She'd very young, but there's a great deal of control implied in blood collection – most young vampires can't manage that level of restraint. Usually they lose themselves to their bloodlust and gorge themselves upon anyone they can get their hands on… and then hunters would find them and kill them, more often than not.

"It is more efficient and clean that way, yes," she agrees and comes forth with the bottle. It's small, only big enough for a single glass. "Never mind safer for both me and my girls."

"The blood comes from the courtesans?" Desmond asks with interest.

"Yes – a bloodletting once a month, should their health be good, is part of their contract here," the woman agrees, and breaks the seal – and the containment spell on the bottle.

It's been… months since Dracula had human blood. He forgot how sweet the taste of fresh human blood in air could be.

The woman pours for him and then motions him to take the glass. "On the house," she says. "For the next drink I will have to charge. This is a business, after all."

Dracula considers the glass and then reaches for it. "The source of this is still alive?" he asks.

"Yes – I would show her to you, but she is occupied currently upstairs," the vampire woman says. "It's a virgin vintage, of course."

"Virgin vintage? Is there really a difference between virgin blood and normal blood?" Desmond asks, grinning amusedly.

"What we call virgin doesn't mean blood of a sexual virgin – but the blood of humans who have no illnesses," Dracula explains wryly and looks at the vampire woman. He's impressed. "What is your name?"

"Paola, my lord," she says and curtsies gracefully. "I am the Madame of La Rosa Colta, the head of Florence's Guild of Courtesans and the Spy Mistress of the city."

Quite the titles, and judging by her behaviour they're earned ones, not inherited. "You know who I am," Dracula says, and takes the glass of blood in his hand.

"I – suspect. I can sense you are very old," Paola says, demurely. "But I wouldn't dare to presume to know you."

Dracula hums and takes a sip. The blood is… exquisite. "Perhaps best we keep it that way," he says. "You know not my companion either, I see – he is the reason we're here, not I."

"... Ah," Paola says, looking a little taken aback, and looks at Desmond. "My apologies – I am always happy to serve the Brotherhood, of course. Would your like some wine?"

"I'm good, thanks – maybe later," Desmond says, smiling. "Don't worry about it – I know Dracula is very impressive, and anyone who gets him to eat gets a pass in my books."

Dracula smothers a sigh, and takes another drink.

"My name is Desmond Miles," the human says. "Dracula and I are going to be staying in Florence for a while and… what? What is it?"

Dracula looks up to see Paola's eyes slightly wider as she stares at Desmond. "I apologise, I was only surprised. Vampire lords travel so rarely," she said slowly, quickly gathering herself. "Please continue."

Desmond doesn't, eyeing her closely, his eyes flashing with intent – he's using his Sight. "I think," he says. "You've heard my name before?"

Dracula narrows his eyes at that – at the tension in the atmosphere.

Paola's painted lips tighten, and then she purses them into a smile. "Read of it, actually. A character of an old story, one of my favourites – the Lament of the Lost Future. Perhaps your parents named you after it?"

Dracula had been subject to Desmond's truth and his unwillingness to lie – so when the young man relaxes and smiles and says, "Yeah, that's probably it. My parents loved old stories," Dracula can see the lie for what it is.

"How does the story go?" he asks, turning his eyes to Paola.

"I don't remember it word for word, I'm sorry to say," Paola says – she is watching Desmond closely, so she too had spotted the lie. "But it's a story about the Goddess Minerva of the Roman pantheon – destined to have a son named Desmond, who would save the world from certain destruction. Another Goddess, Juno, struck Minerva down in jealousy and made her infertile, and so Desmond was never to be born. The story was written about Minerva's Lament over it – how she tried to birth him, and failed time and time again "

Desmond's eyes widen and he looks mortified. "That's a _horrible_ story," he says, choked.

"I have never heard it before," Dracula says, watching him. "And I've done some study on the matter of the two Goddesses lately."

"It was only ever written down in one book, I'm afraid, an unbound Codex" Paola says, watching Desmond. "The pages of which have been scattered and lost – now only second hand accounts of the story remain."

Desmond most certainly knows what that means, there's certain recognition in his grimace.

"Son of Gods, Desmond?" Dracula asks, wry and thoughtful. "Do you know your father – Jupiter perhaps?"

" _No,_ that's – no. Don't even _start_ ," Desmond says firmly, even while shuddering with very real dismay. "My father was an abusive asshole and my mother was an absentee enabler – both very human, thank you very much."

And yet he has a tattoo on his arm of Minerva and Juno – and enough faith in them to make it _Holy._ Dracula hums, considering him further.

"This has nothing to do with why we're here," Desmond says, rather hastily.

"No," Dracula agrees. "But it makes me regret coming here a little less. This seems most amusing."

"Good for you, because I regret everything now," Desmond mutters and turns to Paola, who's looking between them with great interest. "As a vampire in Florence, you must know places where we could stay a while, safely – without the old asshole burning in the daytime."

Paola gives him a very amused smile. "That depends on your intentions," she says. "What are you here to do, exactly?"

"He is here on a holiday, because he needs a break. I'm here to check out some threats to the Brotherhood," Desmond says and then adds. "And maybe remove them, if it comes down to it."

"Have you introduced yourself to the Mentor yet?"

Desmond hesitates and then shakes his head. "I'm actually not hundred percent sure who the Mentor of the area is – I'm not from around here."

Paola's brows arch. "In that case, perhaps you would like to stay here for now – I can call upon the Mentor and introduce you. We can set up rooms for you once they open up – for a price."

Stay here, at a brothel? Dracula imagines Godbrand learning of it and knows he'd never hear the end of it. And yet…

The brothel is clean, its Mistress seems very interesting and intelligent, and she has a store of blood, which would remove any need for hunting. And Dracula would much rather stay in a place which is confirmed so safe for a vampire, than one which might not be so secure.

Desmond looks at him expectantly and Dracula sets down his glass. "We accept," he says, and reaches into the air, calling upon his castle. He should awaken his shadow servants to manage the castle and cater to him once more, he muses, while reaching into the treasury and grabbing from within it a handful of coins.

Paola's breath catches a little as he lays the gold on the table. Even Desmond looks a little wide-eyed. "Does this cover our expenses?"

"More than, for a few weeks at least," Paola agrees quickly.

"Then it is settled," Dracula says. "But please have the rooms cleaned – thoroughly."

* * *

 

Desmond escapes the brothel the moment Dracula becomes preoccupied with the rooms. There's no other way to put it. The human flees from Paola's thoughtful looks, and perhaps Dracula could have needled him less concerning the Lament of the Lost Future – but Desmond did want him to have _fun,_ didn't he?

Paola seems very intrigued, but she is also quite the professional and doesn't ask.

"These two rooms will be free for you to use as you please," she says, after said rooms have been cleaned. "We do not have running water here, I'm sorry to say, but clean water will be brought whenever you request. My girls will be happy to help your – but I will have to ask you not to feed on them."

"I will not touch your humans, so as long as you don't touch mine," Dracula answers a calmly. He is pleasantly surprised by the room – is nowhere near as tacky as he feared it would be. "I have to wonder, Madame, how a vampire ends up in such a position? Running a brothel is not an occupation I have seen in my kind "

She considers him and then clasps her hands – short-nailed but well kept and clean – in front of her. "I was turned in this brothel. La Rosa Colta had a different Madame then. On a busy night she let in a new customer, one she wouldn't have normally let in, but she was busy and she didn't look. He was a vampire, and he wanted to _feast on sin._ "

Dracula says nothing, sitting down and waiting.

"He killed eleven girls, before he got to me and I to him," she says. "He bit me and I drove a knife into his heart. His last act was to throw up all the blood he'd taken from my sisters all over me. Seven nights later, I was a vampire."

"You were turned accidentally, without preparation, without any guidance?" Dracula asks, curious. "And yet your control is impeccable."

"I had no choice but to master myself," she says and eases one of her sleeves back, to show burn scarred skin. "The Assassin Brotherhood does not harbour senseless killers – either I learned or I died. So I learned."

Dracula eyes her hand. Damage from Holy water, it seems. Satisfied, Paola covers it up again and smiles. "Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?"

"Can you speak of the Brotherhood?" Dracula asks. "Or have they bound your tongue?"

She blinks and then chuckles. "You know nothing of them, then? You companion had told you nothing."

Dracula narrows his eyes at her.

"I am curious as to how you two met," Paola says, smiling. "The Brotherhood _would not_ bind my tongue, it is not their way. They are the safeguards of humanity's free will – they do not enslave. I am free to speak as I wish – I have, however, taken oaths, with my free will, which I intend to uphold. And one of them states; do not compromise the Brotherhood."

Dracula frowns at that. Loyalty, is it?

"Your Desmond had likely taken the same oaths," Paola says, amused. "Son of a Goddess or not, if he is an Assassin, they will matter to him."

"So you think he is – son of a goddess?" Dracula asks, keeping his face blank and his voice without an inflection.

"No," Paola says, humming amusedly. "But who knows. There might be something to the story. Tell me, my lord – why are you here?"

"I believe Desmond already answered that."

"Yes, but I have heard rumours, everyone has," Paola says, thoughtful. "You all but declared war in your country – everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see what will follow. Whether you would call upon vampire kind to serve in your armies, or not."

Dracula says nothing – he doesn't owe this woman an answer.

"Well," she says eventually. "I hope you enjoy your stay in La Rosa Colta, my lord."

* * *

 

It takes less than half an hour before Dracula begins to modify this space, writing spells to the walls, floor and ceiling. If he's to stay here, he will not be doing it with these noises and smells floating through the building. Wherever he is, there will be _silence_.

It has some side effects, however.

"What are you doing?" Desmond asks from the window – and the silence charms charms kept Dracula from hearing his approach.

"I am making my stay here more endurable," the vampire answers. "Are you over your embarrassment?"

"What?" Desmond asks. "Oh yeah, that, no, still absolutely mortified. Anyway, this world sucks and I hate everything about it, it's the worst."

Dracula arches a brow at that and finishes his spell work quickly. "Very well, what is wrong with the world?"

"Somehow this world managed to get Leonardo da Vinci wrong," Desmond says with what sounds like honest anger and sorrow. "This world did him dirty, and I am so sad."

Dracula looks at him dubiously. " _Who_?" he asks.

Desmond moans as if in actual pain. "Leonardo da Vinci. He was one of the most important historical figures in my world – painter, engineer, architect, polymath, he did a lot of really really important stuff. He discovered heart valves and did extensive studies in human anatomy, and he pretty much invented manned flight – and he painted a lot of really really important paintings. He was a genius and this world _got him wrong._ He's not a painter here!"

The vampire eyes him somewhat incredulously. "You are whining about a historical figure?"

Desmond drops down from the windowsill. "Not so historical anymore. He lives here, in Florence. And I really wanted to introduce you two. Leonardo in my world was the _epitome_ of human ingenuity and brilliance and _goodness_ ," he sighs. "You have no idea how sad I am for this world now."

Dracula shakes his head, more confused by the human's honest grief than actually sympathetic to its cause. What a strange thing to feel sad about. "If he was a genius in your world, perhaps here he turned his genius to other ends," the vampire says. "Did you speak to him?"

"No, I broke into his house and when I saw it was full of books and not paintings I kind of... freaked out," Desmond admits, rubbing his hands over his face. "In my world he had this disdain for book learning, because people would then just recite books and not figure things out on their own and experiment and stuff – and here, his house is covered in books. His house is a freaking library – he's a librarian! This is the worst universe."

Dracula sighs. "You are ridiculous," he says. "If he possesses a library, then he must be a learned individual. Perhaps he writes books, here, which will have a similar impact on history. Did you look further?"

Desmond drops his hands. "No, he wasn't there," he admits quietly. "I was going to go and take a look at the Auditore too, but after Leonardo's house I… I don't know. I didn't think the differences between the two worlds would get to me like this. Guess I'm scared to look."

Dracula shakes his head and turns back to his work. "Well, if you thought this Leonardo was worth meeting before, perhaps there's still something to him. Should I come with you and hold your hand?" he says wryly. "It would be interesting, seeing you afraid."

Desmond looks up and then grins weakly. "You're trying to be a dick, but don't think I don't notice you actually trying to comfort me."

"If it keeps you from whingeing," Dracula says and lowers his hands from the wall as a knock sounds though the room. "Enter."

It's Paola, who peeks into the room and smiles when she sees Desmond. "Good, you're both here. The Mentor had arrived."


	12. Chapter 12

Desmond had never really gotten a proper read on how well organised the Brotherhood in Italy was before Ezio took over as the mentor. Obviously there were Assassins, and those Assassins had contacts – Paola, la Volpe, both acted in their way as sort of teachers to Ezio early on and had been around before him. Antonio, Theodora, Bateolomeo, Machiavelli – who was all of _nineteen_ when Ezio meet him and had to be trained as an Assassin by someone, several someones really, to attain higher rank than Ezio so fast.

So there was some organisation there – there were Assassins doing Assassin-like things. But there was also this sense of disarray, especially later on, like they didn't quite know what to do. Mario was the de facto leader then – not the Mentor – and half of the time he just let Ezio do whatever he wanted and eventually just followed Ezio's lead. From what Desmond had seen, Mario wasn't that good with the organisation part. Machiavelli was a little better, but he didn't have the charisma to run the Brotherhood – and neither was good at actually growing it. It felt more like… they were still hanging on the coattails of a previous leader, whose work was still there – but crumbling. By the time Machiavelli headed to Rome, there was no structure left there, if there'd ever been, and Machiavelli didn't have the means or proper strength of will to build it. That took Ezio.

So, all things considered… Desmond had wondered if Giovanni Auditore had worked as either the de facto leader like Mario, or as the Mentor. He had connections to the thieves and courtesans – Ezio's first contact with them was through delivering Giovanni's letters to them. He also had the money, working for the Medici bank – work like that would fund a Brotherhood pretty far, probably. So it would make sense. Giovanni was also the original owner of Ezio's first set of robes, so…

Or it could be Leonardo da Vinci, who had even better connections, knowing courtesans, thieves and all sorts of worrisome individuals over the years. This works is weird enough that it just might happen, and if it did, Desmond would just about _lose it._

"Are you nervous?" Dracula asks him incredulously. "I must be losing my touch, if you can traipse around my castle free of concern, but _humans_ make you _nervous."_

"Shut up, this is important to me, alright?" Desmond says and peeks into the lounge where Paola had led them, hoping it'd be someone sensible like Giovanni – or Mario – Auditore and there'd be some sense left in this weird nightmare world. Thought Leonardo would be preferable to, say, Francesco de Pazzi, but still…

It's not Giovanni. It's not Leonardo either – it's almost worse than that.

"Here," Paola says, as she steps into the room and approaches the woman sitting on one of the divans, sipping tea. "My guests, _Desmond_ Miles and his vampiric companion, who chooses to remain nameless while in Florence. Gentlemen; our Mentor, Maria Auditore."

Maria Auditore. Ezio's _mother._

"Hello," she says, smiling warmly but with very sharp eyes. "I'm sure it's a pleasure to meet you, but I understand that you might have something of a time sensitive issue on your hands, so, let us not waste time on pleasantries. Please, sit."

Like in a dream, Desmond goes to sit. Dracula doesn't, looking between them and then moving towards the window instead – physically extracting himself from the conversation, but staying close enough to overhear and… and Desmond doesn't even care, drinking in her visage in shock. She looks much the same, her clothes are the same, she doesn't look at all like an Assassin, and yet...

Maria Auditore is the Mentor. Maria. Had it been like that in his world to, before – before everything went to shit? No, it couldn't have been, someone would've told Ezio, right – _Maria_ herself would've told Ezio, when _he_ became the mentor, _right?_ She was still alive back then – though… not for long after, and Desmond isn't sure what state she had been in, after over twenty years of near catatonic depression and all, but…

But _Maria_ is the Mentor.

"You seem shocked. You didn't expect a woman?" she asks him, amused.

"It's – not that," Desmond says awkwardly. It's that she's _Ezio's mother,_ and he'd watched her decline in mental illness and old age, and seeing her like this is weirdly heartbreaking. She looks so strong and young and confident. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to rude."

"It's quite alright – most men don't expect me. Which is quite honestly how I prefer it," Maria says, smiling, while Paola sits beside her. "You come from Wallachia, correct?" she asks, casting a look at Dracula's back. "We have heard some… concerning things from the region."

"I'm working on that," Desmond says, glancing at Dracula and then away. "We're here – I'm here for another reason. Have you heard anything of the Templars lately?"

Maria turns her eyes to him, her excision sharpening. "Old stories and superstition," she says. "Their order was put to an end when the last Grandmaster Jacques de Moley and his lieutenants were put to the stake in the late fourteenth century by the French king. The order ended there."

"Are you sure?" Desmond asks, narrowing his eyes a little. He'd seen targets in Florence, so there is _something_ going on.

Maria considers him and then sets her cup down and clasps her hands loosely in her lap. "What do you know?" she asks.

"I'm not a hundred percent sure of any of this, I haven't had the chance to investigate yet," Desmond warns her, because there's already difference between worlds. "I meant to start tonight. But I think the Templar order survived but went underground – or someone adopted their name and cause. They've been working their way into the Catholic church since then, and they are members in high ranking offices now. And they are eventually going to make to control the Italian peninsula – starting with the most powerful States, Florence, Milano, Venice…"

Maria frowns slightly. "Do you have proof of this – can you give me names?"

"I – could, but I want to confirm them first. I don't have any proof yet – but I'm confident I can find some," Desmond says. "I was meaning to get some first before making any of this known."

"Hmm," Maria hums, leaning back in slightly. "And how do you know any of this, if you have no proof to give or people to name?" she asks. "It's quite the thread you've spun, you must realise – a difficult one to believe offhand."

"Yeah, I do," Desmond sighs. "Which is why I meant to confirm everything and get proof first, before meeting with anyone."

"And yet you came here," Paola comments, arching a brow. "To an _Assassin_ establishment."

"Well, that was because… er," Desmond hesitates, glancing at Dracula and then away again. "It seemed – safest?" and he needed a piece to safely leave Dracula without having to worry about… anything. Which, in hindsight, might be a bit condescending, when put that way, but it's true.

The women eye him suspiciously and Dracula sighs. "He is a Seer," the vampire says without looking back at them. "That is why he has no proof and cannot explain himself worth a damn – he is far too used to simply _knowing_ things."

Paola looks a little dubious at that but Maria's brow arch with interests. "A Seer?" she asks. "You know the future?"

"Well – not, not well enough to give predictions or like… prophecies or anything," Desmond says quickly. "I just – see things. And find things when I know what I want – like, say, a place where he," he points to Dracula, "will be safe."

"I do not need a minder, Desmond, I can protect myself," Dracula answers, glancing his way, his tone low.

"Yeah, well. There's also the people around you," Desmond says and shrugs. "And the whole feeding thing. Here, that doesn't seem to be a concern."

Dracula shakes his head and turns away from the window, moving to join him. "Ask him what you want to ask him," he says, settling down in great sprawl of his cloak. "I care not of your human ordeals. None of this is of interest to me."

Desmond looks at him – what a _dick –_ while Paola looks vaguely amused and worried and Maria considers them with an inscrutable expression. "Then," she says. "Would you mind terribly giving us privacy so that we may speak with Messere Miles alone?"

"Yes," Dracula says, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I do mind that."

Maria purses her lips slightly and looks at Desmond. Desmond shrugs. He can't actually order Dracula around and he knows this mood – it'll end in a fight if he starts pushing it, and he isn't sure La Rosa Colta would survive that. Better not.

Maria hums and then takes something from a hidden pocket in her skirts – a chain, it looks like. "Would you wrap this around your wrist, please?"

"What is it?" Desmond asks while accepting it. It has beads, and at first he thinks it's a rosary – but what hangs at the end isn't a crucifix, but a medallion, carefully carved full of intricate little Arabic around the symbol of the Assassins Brotherhood. "Oh, neat," Desmond murmurs, holding it to the light to read the inscription. It's the Creed.

"There's a spell on it," Dracula warns him sharply.

"The person wearing it cannot be manipulated or enslaved by any magical means," Maria explains and smiles to the vampire. "Not even by vampire thrall."

Desmond blinks and then looks at the medallion under Eagle Vision.

In the darkness of Eagle Vision, the medallion glows – and not only that. There's a circle of floating writing around it, in rings, also in Arabic, written roughly and thickly, as if with finger paints. Or blood. It reads like a prayer, "May your tongue be unbound and your mind free, may no one chain your mind or bind your thoughts, may you see the truth and move in accordance to your own will, may your emotions be honest and yours alone. May you have Free Will."

Desmond knows the handwriting. The medallion was made by Altaïr. Altaïr of this world had made a magical medallion thingy. Was he a magician then? Damn.

At least now he knows Altaïr did exist in this world.

Blinking until his vision is normal, Desmond looks up to Maria. Then he wraps the chain around his wrist, holding the medallion in his palm.

"Thank you," Maria says.

"You know this thing won't stop me from lying, right? It's not a truth serum," Desmond points out.

"Truth spells and potions go against the Creed – I only want to confirm your free will," Maria says, giving him a surprisingly warm smile despite everything. "Are you here on your own volition?"

"Yes, I am," Desmond says and tilts his head. "You think he's controlling me?" He asks, nodding towards Dracula.

"It's he?"

"If I were, we certainly wouldn't be here," Dracula scoffs.

Maria ignores him, watching Desmond. Desmond shrugs. "He isn't, I promise. Coming here was my idea, really – I just sort of dragged him along."

Maria's brow arches. "Oh my," she says. "Should I ask _him_ to wear the chain?"

Desmond snorts. "Sure, if you _can."_

"Vampire is his age can't really be manipulated in that way," Paola says to her Mentor. "Their minds and magic are too powerful – it would take entity older than them to manage, and there are few of those."

"And we have our own protections against such manipulations," Dracula says coolly, while Desmond unwinds the chain. "We have many enemies who would try to bewitch us, if they could."

"I see," Maria says and accepts the medallion from Desmond.  "Thank you."

"Careful with that. You know it was made by Altaïr, right?" Desmond asks.

Maria looks at him curiously. "You can see that?"

"I can recognize his handwriting," Desmond shrugs. "I didn't know he made things like that, though."

"He made hundreds of them in his lifetime – every Assassin in Masyaf had one, sometimes two," Maria agrees. "Many of them have been lost, but we are still in possession of a few."

"And at a guess, no one's been able to make more?" Desmond asks.

The Mentor looks at him curiously.

"The – I guess the spell? Was written into the air around the medallion," Desmond explains. "You'd need Eagle Vision to make the thing."

"Hmm," Maria answers, but says nothing more – maybe there had been people who'd been able to make more, maybe not. Either way, she's not telling. "Back to the matter at hand," she says and puts the medallion away. "You intend to investigate Templars in Florence?"

"That's the idea."

She nods. "You may feel free to do so, but kill no one," she says. "If there is a threat here, we will deal with it ourselves. It is our territory, and I do not know you – I cannot trust your motives. But if you bring me proof… perhaps we can work together in solving the matter."

Desmond leans back a little. "I can work with that, yeah," he says. "Thank you for your understanding."

"I know what happened in Wallachia – you have my sympathies for the loss of your Mentor," Maria says sadly. "I understand things have been... difficult since."

"Er. Yeah. Thanks," Desmond says awkwardly.

"Perhaps, if all humanity isn't horribly _slaughtered_ in seven months," Maria says wryly, casting a look at Dracula, "Things might yet work out for our Romanian brothers and sisters."

Dracula eyes her coolly, and Desmond snorts. Ballsy – he'd forgotten that about her. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

Maria stands up. "I will set forth my own investigation on the matter of the Templars," she says. "We will meet again once we have something. Also, if I may…"

Desmond straightens and prepares for the Lament of the Lost Future nonsense. "Yes?"

Maria smiles little wider and looks him over. "That is a _lovely_ coat."

Desmond blinks and then beams at her. " _Thank_ you – I stole it from a vampire castle."

* * *

 

"Templars," Dracula says later. "Knights Templar, I assume."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, checking his clothing and gear. He's got his hidden blade, his knife, sword… no throwing knives, no bombs. Crossbow would be nice. "Our mortal enemy – nice to know there's something that's the same, between the worlds, even if it's the shitty aspect of it."

The vampire watches him from an armchair by the window, his expression thoughtful. "Will you tell me now?" he asks. "What is this Brotherhood of yours and what do they do?"

Desmond glances at him and then turns back to the sword. "Who knows how it started," he says, "Assassins were originally a military force in – well, the Holy land. They had a castle in Masyaf and they did their master's, Al Mualim's, will. Killed people for him. They had a Creed and Tenets, _stay your blade from the blood of the innocent_ and all that, but really they were mostly just soldiers. Then Al Mualim went nuts, tried to enslave the other Assassins, and was killed. Altaïr took over afterwards – Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. He turned the Brotherhood around – against slavery, manipulation and so forth. Safeguards of Mankind's Free will. Mostly it was fight against Templars and their attempt to control the world. That started in Altaïr's time, too, the war. It's a long story."

He takes out the sword, considering the blade. It looks sharp. "Altaïr sent us out, sent Assassins to establish branches all over the known world. Ever since then the Brotherhood had been trying to do his will – with varying levels of success, granted."

Dracula turns the words over in his mind. "And here? What is the event you are looking to prevent?"

"In my world, Templars had most of Auditore family hung as part of a larger conspiracy," Desmond says. "My ancestor survived, along with his sister and mother, but it changed their lives. I'm… going to prevent it, if it's ever even going to happen here."

"Auditore – like the Mentor?" Dracula asks.

"The mother of my ancestor," Desmond snorts. "Lemme tell you, I didn't expect her to be the Mentor. Nor sure she was in my world – she had a breakdown after the hanging, when she lost her husband and two of her sons."

Dracula says nothing to that, looking away, and Desmond finishes his gear inspection in silence. He turns to look at the vampire while strapping the sword to his side. Dracula is looking grim and gloomy again. "Wanna go out and take a look at the city?"

"Sun is rising," Dracula says wryly.

"Once it sets then."

The vampire looks at him, arching a brow. "Did you not bring me to this establishment so that you could work unhindered by my presence?"

"If I wanted that, I could have just left you to rot at the castle," Desmond points out. "I brought you here, because I want to show you Florence."

Dracula leans his cheek to his knuckles, his eyes gleaming red in the dim light. "Why do I indulge you?" he wonders grimly. "You are a ridiculous, distracted little human with little human concerns. Why do I bother with you?"

Desmond hesitates. Mood swinging to the dark side again, oh boy. "I don't know? Are you seriously asking – do you want to talk about it, work through it?"

" _Talk_  all you do is _talk,_ " Dracula says, narrowing his eyes.

"We are not fighting here," Desmond says firmly.

"Then _do_ something else. I am tired of this, Desmond, and I cannot see why I should keep you around when your loyalties are so obviously elsewhere."

Desmond stands still. "I never said I was loyal to you."

"It was _implied_ in the loyalty you showed," Dracula says and bares his teeth. "Now you have brought me to this place, full of crosses and human filth – you treat me with impunity and dismiss my power – as though I was nothing but another human. Is that it then, are you trying to bring forth my _humanity?_ As though you have the _right..."_

Desmond sighs and lets Dracula to work his way through it. Not yet over the anger phase, then. And – yeah, Desmond might have pushed for too much, too fast here. With the sun rising, Dracula must be feeling weaker – it's making him irritable.

Irritable Dracula isn't good for anyone.

"Tell me something," Desmond says, halting the snarling tirade.

"Now you interrupt me?" Dracula snaps.

"When you bite a human, are there any effects – if you don't drain them _dead,_ I mean. Is it fatal, do they turn into ghouls, vampires, what? Is the bite wound instantly infected?"

Dracula narrows his eyes. "That depends on the intent," he says. "All of that may happen or none of it. To turn a human into a vampire takes vampire blood – the human must drink it in turn."

Desmond nods slowly, thinking it over, hesitating, but…

What the hell.

He walks over to Dracula, tugging at the right sleeve of his jacket, pushing it up. "Do not mangle my hand – I need my hands," he says firmly.

Dracula eyes him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Proving trust," Desmond says and holds the bared arm to him. "And that I have no intention of making you _human._ Please don't turn me into a ghoul, I'd be wasted as a ghoul."

Dracula eyes the bared skin warily, gripping the armrests. "And if I turn you into a vampire instead?"

"You will damn well better be prepared to deal with the consequences," Desmond snorts. "I'd rather you didn't, at this time. I might have to sneak into churches to stab people in the future, and it'd be awkward if I burst into flames doing so."

The vampire takes his wrist, closing his cold, long-nailed fingers over it. Desmond swallows, his heart suddenly beating double pace, but he keeps still, waiting.

"I have not turned a vampire in over a century," Dracula murmurs. "Perhaps I will turn you, at that. You would finally fall in line."

"Yeah, that's never going to happen," Desmond snorts.

Dracula sighs and grips his wrist. "You are _insufferable."_

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, his mouth going dry as the vampire draws his hand closer to his mouth. Dracula's teeth, never easy to miss or ignore, seem longer and sharper now. More predatory than ever before. Because he is – a predator.

"How do vampires even make sense evolutionarily?" Desmond wonders, watching the vampire's ridiculously long eyelashes flutter with irritation. "Like how did you even come to be – what kind of evolutionary advantage is there in drinking blood as opposed to being an omnivore and eating pretty much anything else –"

Dracula sighs, "We didn't evolve, Desmond, we were _cursed._ There is no advantage to it, because it isn't meant to be an advantage – it is a damnation."

"You know how overly dramatic the sounds?"

"Shut up, human," Dracula says, irritated.

"Ha," Desmond answers, grinning like an idiot, full of adrenaline and bravado now. " _Bite me._ "

And with a growl, Dracula does.


	13. Chapter 13

Dracula doesn't bite people anymore – like most older vampires, he'd rather tear a human's throat open and let the blood pour down into his open mouth. It is easier that way. There's an intimacy in biting directly into the living flesh of his victim, which is thrilling when one is young, but becomes… both dreary and perverse when one gets older.

He can still taste the beat of Desmond's heart in the back of his throat – it lingers, teetering on the edge of enticing and unpleasant, and refuses to dissipate. There's a sweet threat to it – to the incessant, soft thrum of a beating heart. The threat of it quieting, stopping, ceasing. The last beat, the last desperate attempt of a body to preserve its life, its function… it's always the sweetest. And there had been a time when Dracula had enjoyed it.

He'd lost the taste for it long ago, when humans lost their individuality in his eyes and became drops in the endless ocean of blood, meaningless in the flood. One death was the same as another, little of it had a purpose, little of it had meaning. The taste of those last beats became something vile, a wasted bit of a useless life. Humans had _everything_ , and they were _nothing._ The taste of their struggles, formerly so sweet, became rotten.

Desmond's life doesn't taste rotten, however. It tastes like rain after thunder – like ozone in a damp, humid air, full of energy, potential, life.

"Well?"

Dracula looks up from his musings and to the street they're walking on. He'd lost track of where Desmond was leading him to, in their tour of the city. He has no doubts of Desmond's loyalty now – it's split, no doubt, but he can trust the human not to lead him astray. Falsehood was something the man's blood did not carry. "What?" Dracula asks, wishing for a glass of rich wine, to wash away the taste of heartbeat from his tongue.

"Well, what do you think?" Desmond says, motioning ahead of them. He has a bandage around his wrist, the white linen a shade warmer than the ivory-white of his coat – it's eye-catching, in the moonlight. Desmond would always have marks on his wrist, where Dracula had bit him.

"Come on," the human says. "You have opinions about everything – you gotta have something to say."

Dracula looks ahead. The architecture of Florence is… pleasant, he has to admit. Everything has a warmer hue than he's used to from Wallachian architecture, and the streets are almost clean. No bare dirt in this place, Florence is far too wealthy and fine for that – no, every street is paved with smooth, cut stone, and not merely round cobbles. All one would need was throw a roof above the narrow street, and it'd be fit to be called a house.

"I don't like it," Dracula says.

"What?" Desmond demands, horrified. "How can you not like it – look at it! It's all clean and nice."

"Exactly," Dracula answers, just to see his expression. "It's false."

"No, it's _maintenance_ ," Desmond says, making a frustrated face at him. "It's a system of people hired to keep the streets clean and nice, because people care about these things, and it's also healthier for everyone."

"Rich people only interested in aesthetics and appearances," Dracula says, dismissively.

"No, that's – well, yes, probably, but also it's better for everyone, see?" Desmond asks, motioning around him. "It's nicer, and so what if it's partially because of rich assholes wanting to look better – if it benefits others, it's good. And it looks good too."

Dracula smothers a smile at that. Ridiculous. "What is it with you and sewers?" he asks. "And what is it precisely you are advocating for here – that I should land my castle here, upturn the entire structure of this city for upwards of ten years, so that my castle can grow its roots and generate the sewers? It would destroy a good chunk of this city, you realise."

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it. "Okay, no, I guess not," he says. "Where I come from, water management, waste treatment, and all that, it was kind of a universal thing in big cities. Nothing like in Wallachia – we didn't have shit on the streets, period, because everyone had flushing toilets. And sanitation was better, because showers. And I guess I miss it."

"Showers?"

"Yeah, for _washing_ ," Desmond says, and haphazardly explains what a shower is by describing what sounds like a waterfall in your home, which you control. "Eliminated about… I don't even know how many percent of cases of dysentery and general diarrhoea."

"And why should I care?" Dracula asks, casting him a look.

"Because you're a privileged jerk with access to clean drinking water and efficient sewer system?" Desmond asks.

"These are things I developed and created for my own use," the vampire says coolly. "I will not feel _guilty_ for my own accomplishments."

Desmond gives him a look and then shakes his head. "You should at least take it into account when you start ranting and raving about us filthy pitiful humans with our sicknesses and needs. Florence is rich as hell, and even it doesn't have your fancy advantages. Some sympathy maybe, next time."

Dracula casts him a look. Though cruder in speech, Desmond sounds just like –

Dracula cuts that line of thought quickly and looks away. "Then they should develop their own ways. It is not my fault they are falling behind."

"Oh, you are _on_ , you asshole," Desmond says, and Dracula blinks – had he issued a challenge, without realising? "You've lived for, how long? Centuries, right?" the human asks and then waves a hand when Dracula opens his mouth. "Centuries, yeah. So, that's centuries of uninterrupted line of _knowledge_ with no breaks and no pauses in between – just unhindered lineage of learning. Humans don't have that – we live for ninety years if we're fucking lucky, and a lot less than that in normal conditions."

Dracula hums in amused agreement. Brief is human life, yes.

"So, a few decades, and there's a break in the line of knowledge. All human kids have to learn everything from scratch," Desmond says. "And that's a break. Not all things their parents know get taught to the kids, because most places in this time don't even have schools. That's a break. Their know-how is still in infancy, and they have a lot of misconceptions, because aforementioned previous breaks, and that's a break in and of itself. There are thousands of little gaps in our learning, little fault lines. And like, maybe one percent of all humanity knows how to read and write – and those who don't, they can only pass their knowledge orally before they die, and then most they knew how to do dies with him. Break, break, break."

"And here's you, sitting on your centuries of interrupted learning and experiments and all that," Desmond finishes. "Telling humans, who also have to survive in the midst of all this, in a world with people like _you…_ that they should develop their own ways. Which we will, grant you, but forgive us if it takes some time."

"All you are doing is proving human inefficiency," Dracula comments, amused at how affected he is. Desmond is normally so calm. "Should I pity them for their faults?"

"Oh, bite me," Desmond mutters.

Dracula arches a brow at that, startled. "Is that an invitation?"

"Oh, pardon me, let me rephrase," Desmond says, rolling his eyes. "Kiss my ass, you smug asshole."

Dracula hums. Not an invitation then. No wonder Desmond had been so amused, issuing the invitation last time – it had been a dare. "Hmm," Dracula answers and looks around. "Where then in this break-filled line of learning do you place Florence? It seems so very important to you."

"Smack dab in the middle of Renaissance," Desmond says and looks around again. "It's what we call this period of time, afterwards – the Renaissance. It starts in this region, more or less. Rich people here get really into classicism and into Arabic knowledge, so books get rewritten, translated, published, learning advances and spreads. They get into Humanism, which is kind of the grandfather of further scientific progress. History and written word leading up to studies, and so forth." 

"I assume your Leonardo da Vinci was part of that."

"Yeah, he was _the_ Renaissance man," Desmond agrees and sighs, motioning ahead. "That's his shop, over there. Or, his _library_."

Dracula arches a brow at him and then looks at the building ahead of them. It doesn't look like much, but, like the rest of the city, it's relatively clean, and he can tell that the building was made with the intention of having it last. The plaster upon its walls is crumbling near the corners, but it looks… fine, compared to similar buildings in Wallachian cities. But then Florence enjoys warmer weather and mild winds – Wallachia more often gets snow in winter than Florence does.

Dracula waits, and when Desmond doesn't do anything but stare at the building, he sighs and steps forward. "What, no, wait –" Desmond says, as Dracula lifts his hand and knocks on the door.

"I am not wasting the night while staring at a door, merely because you are a coward about people," the vampire says.

"Y-you're the one to talk!" Desmond says incredulously, and then looks at the door warily. "He wasn't here last night, though, maybe he isn't – " the door clicks and Desmond freezes. "…in."

The man who opens the door is young, thin, and bearing all the marks of many sleepless nights. He has on his blond head a hastily donned on red beret, and he doesn't look particularly impressive. "Y-yes?" the man asks warily. "Can I help you?"

"Leonardo da Vinci?" Dracula asks, looking him over. The man's clothing are a little ragged – he is not the wealthiest of men.

"Yes, that is me," the young human says, looking at him with eyes which are going increasingly wider – and knowing. "Can I help you somehow?"

"I have absolutely no idea, and it is not I that have an interest," Dracula answers and motions to Desmond, who is staring at the young man, his whole body language screaming _caught_. Whatever and whoever this human is, Desmond is weak to him. Interesting.

The young Florentian eyes Desmond confusedly, taking in his more or less feminine clothes and then – curiously – going a little red at the cheeks. "Um – I don't, I'm not quite certain," he says and begins tugging the door shut. "I'm only a scribe, I don't – I don't think I can help you."

"No!" Desmond says quickly. "I mean – that's not it, um -"

Dracula eyes him dubiously. Honestly? "We have some interest in your work," he says, rolling his eyes at Desmond and turning to the confused Florentian. "Perhaps you have some samples we could examine? May we come in?"

"Oh," the human says, hesitating a little. "Well. Alright then, please," he says, and steps back from the door. "Pardon the mess – I wasn't expecting visitors."

Leonardo da Vinci's house isn't much of a mess – but it is indeed a library. For a man dressed so poorly, he is certainly in possession of a great number of books. Many of them look to be in somewhat poor shape, their covers ripped and their spines broken – though among them are also those which have been recently restored. It seems the young man does book binding as well as book restoration. Interesting.

Desmond seems to radiate grief as he looks around in the library – searching for something which isn't there. In the meanwhile the owner of the establishment himself is bustling around, collecting samples, saying, "My latest work, I'm sorry to say, was quite ruined with a spill of some – water over the papers, but here, my latest inscriptions, and a sample of my penmanship…"

He has a beautiful, but easily legible hand – and he has a sample of initial styles, which are quite intricate and varied. It also… hmm…

Dracula takes the page with sample initials and holds it closer to the candelabra on the writing table, to watch the light reflect on the metallic ink there. The design underneath had been covered by thicker lines of ink, but he can see the symbols drawn around the letter V – alchemical symbols.

"Desmond," Dracula says and holds the letter to him. "Look."

He says it with enough emphasis that, even through his strange regret, Desmond looks up, arching his brows. Then he looks at the lettering with interest – and in no time at all, his eyes flash, gold spreading like ink in water, into his eyes.

On his tongue, Dracula can taste the lightning.

Desmond looks around the scribe shop with his Sight, his eyes gleaming as he takes it in at a new angle. Dracula watches him with interest as he _notices_ unseen things, and then the vampire turns to the scribe himself – or perhaps, the _alchemist_.

"These are lovely," he says and hands the page back. "But it is not the work I meant."

Leonardo da Vinci hesitates, looking at them. "Am I right in assuming you are a vampire?" he asks then.

"What makes you say so?" Dracula asks, amused.

"If I may say, you aren't doing much to hide it," the scribe says thoughtfully, glancing at Desmond and then back to him. "Do you know… la Rosa Colta?"

"Do I know Mistress Paola, you mean?" Dracula asks with interest, while Desmond turns to look back at the scribe. "We do – we are staying at her establishment, as a matter of fact. How do you know her?"

The young man eyes them thoughtfully, deciding whether to believe them, and then glances at Desmond, who's stepping forward.  "You don't – have to worry, we – know," Desmond says, and then pulls up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo. "See?"

He puts the arm close to Dracula – close enough to ignite its Holy glow.

Dracula gives him a displeased look, and Desmond grins, faintly, and looks at Leonardo, who is watching them with much greater interest.

"That is – certainly a Holy light, but it's not any kind of a Holy symbol I know – may I?" the scribe asks eagerly, and at Desmond's nod takes his hand, turning the arm to examine the tattoo. "It's quite well made – no inscription… a depiction of a saint then? Or an angel?"

"Neither," Desmond says. "It depicts Roman Goddess Minerva. Or Juno, I'm not sure which."

"Does it indeed? Fascinating," Leonardo says. "I didn't think there were people – tell me, are you part of a cult that worships these deities? I have always wondered about the strength of _cult_ belief, whether religious zealousness produces a stronger brand of _holiness_ – like in the case of the Hermeticists and the Followers of Romulus –"

"I don't – actually believe in anything, I'm an atheist," Desmond admits, and even Dracula feels surprised at that.

"You – are?" Leonardo asks. "But this – this tattoo, its power, surely –"

"Nope, completely atheistic, and definitely not part of a cult," Desmond says and pulls his arm away, pulling a sleeve back over it. "Never mind that – you wanna show us what you got in the basement?"

"Ah, yes – of course," the human scribe – and likely occultist – motions them to follow. "Right this way – and please mind your heads, the staircase is quite cramped."

What the young man has in his basement is quite the thing. There is a whole another level to the building, one which has been expanded with some magical means, it seems. There is a large transmutation circle on the floor which dominates the space, and all the walls are covered with shelves full of books, scrolls, or containers of various things and liquids – including human remains.

There is a human body there – which, curiously, doesn't seem to surprise Desmond in the slightest.

"Again, pardon the mess. I very rarely bring people down here," Leonardo says, heading forth and bringing out a strange device – which at first looks like it's made of silver, but turns out to be some sort of, perhaps magically transmuted, steel instead. "Here, I suppose you might be interested in this?"

He hands the device to Dracula, who accepts it curiously.

There is a needle to it, and a set of beautifully crafted pistons and valves – and a slot for, what Dracula realises, is a familiar shaped bottle. The bottles of blood Paola had. "How does it operate?" Dracula asks with interest.

"Here, let me show you," the young man says, and then goes through the motions of slotting in place a bottle. "With this mechanism you draw out the air in the bottle, like so," he says, and cranks the device several times, until there is a sound of a pop. "There. Now, you insert the needle into a suitable vein of the one giving the blood, and it will flow automatically into the bottle. It's quite efficient and if properly cleaned and maintained has very little chance of infecting the donor. And the bottle's capacity has been calculated to be safe amount of blood – for an adult – to donate once a month."

"Indeed," Dracula murmurs. So, it works like a syringe – only with an automatic system. It's somewhat roughly made, the pistons are awkward, but they seem to function well. And to create a vacuum in the bottle first…

Lisa had created similar system of using syringes for their blood collection, but never in such a contained system – the blood, unfortunately, always ended up coming into contact with the air in the process. Not so with this system.

"How did you come by this?" Dracula asks, looking up.

"Several years of experimenting – and Paola offered me quite a bit of money if I could come up with means of collecting blood without the need of cutting," Leonardo admits. "She didn't want to scar her girls, you see. And I have done extensive studies on blood, and understand that dried, clotted blood can be somewhat unpleasant, so… this system minimises the risk of clotting and infection, all at the same time."

"That's incredible," Desmond says, leaning in to look. "You just came up with it?"

"Well, like I said, it took some time, but yes," Leonardo admits, looking between them. "But I see you are not here concerning the blood collection?"

Dracula looks at the device – it looks more like a weapon, than a medical tool. Lisa… would have liked it, and she would have been beyond thrilled to know that a human had developed it.

"If we weren't before, we definitely are now," Desmond says, while Dracula sits down on a bench, near the autopsy table, the blood collection tool still in hand. "That thing is amazing. What else do you have in here?"

"Well. This and that," Leonardo says, scratching at his cheek. "Is it something specific you are looking for?"

Desmond glances at Dracula, who is still considering the tool in his hands. Dracula can see him stilling for a moment, his expression taking on a knowing look. Then Desmond turns to Leonardo. "Actually we don't have anything specific in mind. See, I'm a bit of a… Seer?" the human explains with an embarrassed grimace. "And I knew, somehow, we should meet you, but I wasn't sure why."

"A Seer, really? I have never met a Seer – a fortune-teller, once, but she was proven quite fake in the end. Tell me, can you see the future?"

Dracula soon loses track of their discussion, as Desmond quickly leads Leonardo away from him, leaving Dracula to consider the tool in his hands.

Lisa had imagined something of the sort, wished it could be made. Syringes worked for small amounts of blood, which is how she collected samples for study and experimentation, but it was an awkward system for a wholesale blood collection – a syringe could only hold so little, after all. Leonardo was right, in blood letting there was always some clotting, and it was not only unpleasant, but often the cause for which a batch of blood was spoiled in storage…

Dracula runs his thumb over the intricate designs on the steel shaft of the device, and wishes suddenly, painfully, that she was there to see it, that he could see her reaction to it. She would be so excited over it, he can just imagine it, her holding this device in both hands, holding it to the light, turning it this way and that, full of joyful appreciation not only at its existence, but all the things it implied.

" _When people are wounded, the thing that kills them first is the loss of blood, not the wound itself – if only there was a way to take the blood of one person and give it to others without any risk of spoilage or infection in between, we could save so many lives_ –!"

It had been just around the corner, they'd both known it. They had means of bloodletting in syringes, and Dracula knew how to make containers of vacuum – but he had not thought to put these two things together. To store blood in a container without air, yes – but to collect it _directly_ into a vacuum… it's such a simple solution, and he had all the tools for it, and he hadn't thought of it. If only she was here…

Dracula looks up as a shadow falls on him – Desmond. "Hey," he says, soft, and crouches down so that the vampire doesn't have to look up. It's almost like having him kneel – only Desmond doesn't kneel. "Are you alright?"

"She would have loved this," Dracula says quietly. "This device – she hoped to make something much like it… but we never got there."

"Oh," Desmond says, looking at the blood collection tool. "I'm so sorry."

Dracula sighs and sets the tool down on the autopsy table. The human Leonardo is looking at them worriedly from the side, and shaking his head Dracula wipes the trail of blood from his cheek, looking away. "What else is there?" he asks. "Anything of note?"

"Yeah, there's some interesting stuff," Desmond says, looking at him searchingly and then standing up. "Do you want to have a look? We can go, if you like."

He would like. He'd like to return to his castle and think of nothing. "No," Dracula says and stands up, tugging at his coat to straighten it out before wrapping his cape around himself, to hide his shivering. For her sake, because she _isn't_ here… "I do wish to see. Show me."

Desmond smiles to him briefly – proudly – and then motions him to follow. "Come take a look at this – you'll like this. Leonardo's built an _artificial bat_. And it moves!"

Dracula lets out a weakly amused huff of breath at his excitement – apparently, Desmond is no longer quite so sad about this Leonardo not being _his_ Leonardo, then. Shaking his head, the vampire lets the human draw him in, to see and to discover new things.

For Lisa's sake… for his wife. He would look and see what he could learn, for her.


	14. Chapter 14

Leonardo da Vinci has done extensive studies not only on human anatomy – but he also has books and graphs on night creatures, even some stored organs, which he believes come from night creatures. "In many ways, I have found the anatomy to be very similar – same sort of internal organs as humans, animals… Heart, liver, intestines, and so forth," Leonardo says excitedly. "I don't know what it means, precisely, but I am sure it means something."

"Common ancestor, maybe?" Desmond comments.

"I'm sorry?" the occultist asks curiously, looking back at him oh so casually.

Desmond smiles as Dracula arches his brows. "Common ancestor somewhere in their evolution," Desmond says, leaning his chin to his palm. "Artificial or otherwise. Humans developed from apes, maybe night creatures did too – through different… path. Or manipulation."

"The latter," Dracula says. "Night creatures, like vampires and other _accursed_ beings, were largely created from humans, originally. That is why majority of the anatomy is the same, and why night creatures can still be created from human corpses by Devil Forgemasters."

"That's – that's true, Devil Forgemasters exist? I thought it was just a story – but is it true, they can turn human  corpses into living, dark, beings? Into demons?" Leonardo asks excitedly. "I always wondered, but – necromancy isn't very well written about."

"It isn't – Devil Forgemasters can rarely explain and never teach their methods, they are… innate, natural abilities, not something one learns," Dracula says. "It's not something one can easily write about, and the few books that have been written are… exceedingly precious. We would not let them fall into the hands of mortals, where they might easily be lost."

"I'm sorry, what?" Desmond asks. "Devil Forgemasters, what?"

"Humans, with… a very powerful ability to craft life from death with magic," Dracula explains. "They are rare, but they exist – I personally know two. They can create undead, in essence – or, in possession of a suitable soul, they can create what humans call… demons."

"Huh," Desmond says, arching his brows. Just when he thought he got used to the whole magic thing, there's people resurrecting other people into, what, zombies? "That's… something," he answers, wondering how _that_ works with his theories on Isu and Magic and all that. "I'd like to meet these… Devil Forgemasters."

"Perhaps you will," Dracula muses, casting him a look and then turning to Leonardo. "Humans are clay to magic," he says. "That is something a Devil Forgemaster once told me – human form is a block of clay that magic may mould in shapes. There is something inherently… malleable in humans."

"That is fascinating," Leonardo murmurs and quickly grabs a piece of charcoal to scribble it down. "Can you tell me…"

Desmond smiles faintly as Dracula leans in to watch the artist at work, wondering. Humans are moldable, huh? Something to do with their origins, maybe? It would fit. And if he was a betting man, he'd bet on these Devil Forgemasters having a little bit of Isu in them. Hmm, are the Pieces of Eden magic here, then, rather than technology? If they exist at all…

He should probably check that out. First things first. "You two look like you're having fun," Desmond says. "Dracula, you mind if I head out to do some spying?"

The vampire looks up. "Oh?" he asks. "Now I no longer need a watchman?"

Desmond grins. "You seem fine," he says. "Don't do anything I wouldn't like you to do."

Dracula narrows his eyes and then looks down at Leonardo – who, though a tall man, doesn't hold a candle to the vampire. "Begone then," he says. "I will see you in the morn, at Mistress Paola's house."

"Holding you to it. Don't eat anybody. Give Leonardo some money."

" _What_?" Leonardo asks, looking up with surprise.

"Yes, yes, off with you," Dracula says, waving a dismissive hand at Desmond. "Maestro, tell me – have you done studies on summoning magic yet?"

Desmond grins, waves cheerfully back at befuddled looking Leonardo, and then heads for the stairs – ducking under the ceiling beam just in time to avoid smacking his head into it. Behind him, he can hear Dracula speaking, asking something about the _circles of Hell,_ which sounds fun – and also vaguely worrisome. They'd be fine. Probably. Dracula should know by now that if anything happened to Leonardo there'd be Hell to pay, anyway. Circles of Hell even.

Stepping outside, Desmond runs a hand over his neck and then turns back and climbs up the side of Leonardo's house and onto the rooftop of the building, balancing on the ceramic tiles. Florence spreads out before him, ghostly under the light of near-full moon, beautiful and a bit cold. It reminds him a little of the night when Ezio took up his father's robes and climbed the tower of Piazza della Signoria. It had been a cold night, too.

Desmond breathes out and opens his eyes in Eagle Vision, looking around for threads. He's tempted to follow the golden one leading to the Auditore family in their new estate – or in this world, the old one, probably, who knows if they ever had the palazzo he remembers them living in. It's tempting, he _wants_ to go and see how Ezio is doing…

But instead he turns his eyes to the nearest red thread. Another world or not, there are enemies here – and he's far too new to this city for them to be _his_ enemies. And with how much stronger Eagle Vision seems to be in this place… Desmond isn't about to question it.

"Here we go," he murmurs, and then launches into movement, running over the rooftop and jumping ahead, to another.

* * *

 

It's beyond nostalgic, running over the rooftops of Florence. The memories of Ezio are all but welling up inside him, rising like a tidal wave, and he finds himself missing the weight of Ezio's heavier armour, the feel of his gloves – Desmond's hands are bare, a bit of an oversight on his part. Roof tiles aren't soft, and neither is brickwork, when you're climbing it with bare hands. The memories also make him – just briefly – miss Ezio's boots. Desmond's own boots have a higher heel, and the expectation of a shorter one almost throws him off balance.

He shakes it off, settles into his own skin, into his own clothing, the flare of his red cape and the flow of the tails of his own coat. Ezio was all well and good – but Desmond definitely prefers his coat. And what better validation could he ask for it than having Leonardo da Vinci himself checking him out?

Grinning with the thrill of the night and the hunt and how fucking ridiculous his life is, Desmond takes a running start and jumps on another roof. There – his closest target, he can almost see it now. Uberto Alberti's house.

Hoisting himself down from the roof to hang on its edge, his long heeled boots at each side of a slightly open window, Desmond looks inside in Eagle Vision. There is one person inside the room, asleep in a four-poster bed. No telling who else is inside the house, he can't see through that many walls yet, but it's a good start.

Desmond eases the window open with his foot and then jumps inside, crouching as he lands to absorb the impact and any noise it might cause. Listening in the darkness, he eases the window back mostly shut, peering towards the bed. A young man, the Templar's son maybe?

Whatever – what he wants isn't in this room. So, as quiet as he can be, Desmond moves across the room, ready to duck low at any sound, and makes for the door.

No one in the corridor beyond – but there he can see the shapes of other people in other rooms. Master bedroom there, two figures in bed – Alberti and his wife, likely. There, another room for another child, perhaps? A guest room? That one has something important within it – a chest, which Desmond can see gleaming through the door. The door is locked, though, and Desmond doesn't have lock picks.

Thinking to return later, Desmond turns to continue on. Uberto Alberti would have a home office, writing room, something – that's where the important stuff would be.

And so it is. There are some letters there, which gleam important, a book, which Desmond grabs without looking – and then there is a safe. It's beautifully made, renaissance build definitely, with all sorts of intricate flower patterns and whatnot – but it's also mostly metal and way too heavy for him to shove under his arm and walk away with.

It doesn't have a padlock, though – but a combination lock.

Five minutes later, Desmond has it open, is freely perusing the documents inside, and considering the money pouch within it. It's _heavy_. Hell yeah.

After taking what he needs, Desmond closes the safe, makes to make everything in the office as it was, and then goes to find something in the house he could use as lock picks. He finds them in what he assumes is Uberto Alberti's wife's hat – two hatpins, one of them adorned with an impressive feather, and other with actual emeralds. Nice.

After bending them into right shapes, Desmond returns to the guest room door, and gets to work on it – listening to the sounds of the house in the meantime. There is only one person awake – a cook, who's just gotten up to make bread probably – but that's in the lower levels, no way he'd hear. Still… every noise he makes with the lock makes the hairs on the back of his head stand out.

Click, click, scrape, and the lock is open – and inside, the occupant is waking up. Desmond stops, stilling with the hat pins in hand and waits, holding his breath. There's a groan, sigh, and the sound of someone turning on their bed and then, after an eternity of heart pounding tension… steady breathing.

Desmond eases inside, looks around for the chest and then sneaks over to it almost on hands and feet. Thank god, it's not locked – inside there are some papers, a book – they look rather… occult.

Desmond glances towards the bed – but he doesn't know the guy sleeping on it. He has a feel to him, though. Somewhat unpleasant, _magical_ feel. A witch, magician, whichever, then. That's… not worrisome at all.

Desmond grabs everything in the chest that gleams golden, and then gets the Hell out of there – as quietly as he can. Once outside and safely on the roof, he looks through what he got quickly – most of it doesn't make sense to him, there's a lot of references to things he doesn't know, magical things. Even in Uberto Alberti's documents, there are references to the occult. Kind of makes him wonder if the Pazzi Conspiracy here isn't so much plotting an assassination, as they're thinking of summoning demons to do their dirty work instead.

In either case… now that he's grabbed all this stuff, his thievery probably wouldn't go unnoticed on the following morning. Which means, come daytime, all the Templars would be on guard about thieves. Which then means… he has only this night to gather evidence.

Desmond shoves the books and papers he stole into his jacket and then looks up. It's going to be a busy night.

* * *

 

"What is this?" Desmond asks interestedly.

Dracula is sitting in an armchair, surrounded by books – with a wine glass in hand. And it looks like actual wine, and not blood – there's a purplish tint to it. He looks downright cozy and comfortable with it, too, like any man winding down after a busy day. Or night.

"Leonardo was kind enough to loan me some of his works. What is _that_?" The vampire asks. "And can't you use a door?"

"Doors are for normal people," Desmond says, and jumps down from the windowsill. "And this is faster. And this," he hoists the sack he's carrying down to the floor, "is a lot of stuff I've spent all night stealing."

It was mostly fine when it was just books and letters and whatnot – but then the Pazzi house had _artefacts_ , weapons and tools and other things. There was even what he assumes now is magical armour – and for reasons which he is starting to doubt a little now, Eagle Sense thought it was important to someone.

Dracula looks at the sack over the book he's holding, and then sets it down and stands. Desmond opens the sack to reveal the stuff he's looted – most of which means very little to him. "Desmond," the vampire says, somewhat admonishing. "Did you rob a wizard?"

"I'm… actually not sure," Desmond says and hands him the packet he's made of all the various important letters he'd found. "I told you about the conspiracy, right? I went around checking their houses and whatnot – and my _Sight_ told me this stuff was important… so I stole it. Also a lot of money, but I am keeping that."

Dracula gives him a look and then opens the letters, scanning through a few of them. "I assume these are written in code," he says.

"Probably, yeah," Desmond says. "But I found a couple of books on demonology and demon summoning – these ones, here – so, I'm thinking they were looking to summon a demon to do their bidding."

"Hmm," Dracula answers, accepting the book. "Quite the tomes they got their hands on," he murmurs. "I though all the copies of this were in the hands of my kind…" He frowns and then quickly sets the books down on the sack. "Is this all of them, all the things you stole?" the Vampire dd.

"Aside from some of the money, yeah," Desmond agrees. "It's all of the books and artefacts and such."

Dracula nods and then draws on the air with his nails, leaving behind red, glowing velts. He writes symbols, makes circles and then slashes his hands through them, making a spell of some sort, probably. It looks pretty damn impressive, though Desmond has no idea what it is he is actually doing.

"Um?" Desmond asks, as the circle of red magic spins over the sack of stolen goods.

"I am making it so that no magican can track them down. No doubt their owners will miss them," Dracula says and casts him a look. "Wouldn't do for these conspirators to follow these items here. If they already haven't."

"Er – is that possible?"

"Most everything is possible with magic, if you know how and have the perquisite intent and belief," Dracula says  and spreads out his fingers over the circling spell. It fades out of sight. "There," he says. "Now, tell me everything."

Desmond pushes his hood back. "I was just going to take all this crap to Maria – why the interest?"

"Humans working at breaching the walls of Hell is rarely a good thing," Dracula says. "And these books should not be in human hands – no more than books on necromancy should be."

"Is this another bit of vampire superiority, how lowly humans shouldn't play with the toys of the big boys?" Desmond asks warily. "Because I am sensing a bit of arrogance here."

Dracula throws him an annoyed look and then sighs. "Humans have only the faintest understanding of what Hell _is_. Tampering with the boundaries of it is not safe, not unless you know what you are doing. When summoning demons, there is always a very real possibility of opening a door the summoner knows not how to close – and releasing upon the Earth horrors they do not even understand, never mind control."

"Isn't that what _you_ meant to do?" Desmond asks, arching a brow at him. "Releasing armies of Hell and all that, wasn't that your plan?"

"I – yes," Dracula admits, and leans back, looking a little affronted. "But not without _control_. There are things in Hell which defy the laws of reality, things I have studied, but which I would never summon to Earth. I only intended to unleash the horde of night creatures – largely corporeal creatures, which I could control and, if need be, destroy and banish. Not the… unnamed, unshaped horrors of Hell."

"Riight," Desmond says, eyeing him. "So what are the unnamed unshaped horrors of Hell like, then?"

The vampire hesitates and then sighs, turning to the chair. "To understand them, you would have to understand that which is beyond reason," he says. "You would have to understand _Hell_."

"Okay, explain Hell to me, then," Desmond says. "You understand it, don't you? So you can explain it."

Dracula shakes his head, frustrated. "I understand some of it," he admits. "Not all of it – and little of it I can put into words."

"Tell me something, then, anything."

The vampire is quiet for a moment, thinking about it. "Hell is another dimension, this is easy enough to understand, but the shape of if is… infinite and shapeless," he says. "Colourless, tasteless. There is no gravity, no air – and yet both in multiple layers, branching into infinity. Hell is a place where stray thoughts turn into monsters and where memories create horrible, fractured worlds in which to exist. It is undefined potential, constantly coming into existence, constantly folding into itself, layering itself into infinity. Every horrible thing that exists derivatives itself into forever, each iteration more horrible than the next. It's…"

Dracula trails off and makes a vague, annoyed motion with his hand. "With enough power you can force reason onto it, but it's never easy, and never without side effects. My castle uses Hell when travelling – it is the greatest feat of Hellish engineering I have ever managed. Between movements the castle briefly exists in Hell, before appearing elsewhere on Earth. That mere fraction of a second it exists in Hell is enough to twist it – mangling the architecture and often leaving traces in the rooms, sometimes monsters. I have protections in place, but still… Hell's corruption is undeniable."

Desmond blinks, trying to wrap his head around it. Then he shakes it, and moves further into the room. "Right – any more of that wine?"

"The bottle is over there," Dracula points, and takes a drink out of his own glass. "Working with Hell is never safe. It is magic without form, magic which rarely _accepts_ form," he says. "That is why I indented to use the night creatures on Earth for my war, and then Devil Forgemasters to make new ones. It was… a safer option, as opposed to actually using forces of Hell."

"Uhhuh," Desmond says, grabbing the bottle and drinking straight from it for a long moment. Then, lowering the bottle with a sigh and a grimace, he asks, "So, Templars using Demons… a bit not good?"

"Yeah, a bit not good," Dracula agrees wryly. "I won't deny that humans can understand these things – young Leonardo seems wise to the ways of Hell. But it's not something I'd rather risk."

"Hm, Leonardo is a special case," the Assassin agrees, and then, for a lack of a chair to sit on, sinks to sit on the floor cross legged, the bottle in his lap. "Tell me something – about Hell. What colour is it?"

"What?" Dracula asks, giving him a look. "I tell you about the horrors of Hell, and you want to know what _colour_ it is?"

"I want to know what colour it is, yeah," Desmond agrees, giving him a grin. "So? What is it? Red?" Please let it be red.

Dracula makes a face and shakes his head. "There are many colours to the many structures of Hell," he says and lifts his glass. "But the open space, where nothing has yet been created… it is mostly grey."

"Grey," Desmond answers flatly.

"Hell is not fire and brimstone, as humans assume," Dracula agrees wryly. "Oh, there are sections of it that are in eternal fire, but pure Hell, where there is yet nothing, and there is an infinity of that… there Hell is only a grey nothingness."

"Huh." So Hell is Grey. Go figure. "Right," Desmond says, and then takes another drink. Fucking _Hell_. "Okay, right, moving right along. I am going to dump most of this crap into Maria's lap and see what she thinks. Opinions?"

Dracula looks at the mound of stolen things. "Not the books," he says. "Or anything they might use to invoke true Hell. I will take those."

Desmond looks at him, thoughtful. Vampire superiority again. It kind of rubs him the wrong way, even if Dracula has a point. It's one of the things about Assassins too, which he hates. The exclusivity of _dangerous information_ and how it has to be supposedly suppressed. Assassins over the ages did it with Pieces of Eden, and now Dracula and apparently other vampires are doing it with dark magic.

Desmond can just imagine it leading down the same path – where, eventually, evil assholes would gain secret knowledge to use against other people, like Templars eventually had with Isu knowledge. And no one could do anything about it, because they didn't have the right knowledge, because they were kept in the dark by well-meaning bastards with inflated sense of self-importance and opinions on what was _right_ for the world.

"What?" Dracula asks at his expression.

"I should tell you about Albus Dumbledore and the Greater Good, sometimes," Desmond mutters. "But no. Let's give the books to Leonardo."

"To a human occultist who will likely to try and use them?" Dracula asks coolly.

"You said so yourself, he's wise to the ways of Hell," Desmond says and leans back. "I don't like knowledge being restrained. All it does is create elitism, and leave people ignorant."

"Sometimes that is because some people are simply _better_ than others, and ignorance in some cases is bliss."

"People can be wiser or more informed – or less so. There are no _betters_ there, just people _worse off_ ," Desmond says and stands up. "Leonardo's wise – and he'll be wiser if he's more informed. I mean, you like him, right?"

"Not as much as you, evidently," Dracula scoffs.

"So give him a chance," the Assassin says and shrugs. "In my world, Leonardo created war machines which would've changed history and how the war was fought. You know what he did with them?"

"Changed the world for _better_?" Dracula asks, sarcastic.

"He sabotaged them, so that evil assholes couldn't use them to their advantage," Desmond says. "People can choose to do good things with dangerous knowledge. And who knows, maybe something good comes of it, like say, protections against Hell. Who knows."

The vampire hums, watching him darkly. Then he turns away and sets his glass down. "You put a great deal of trust in a man with human cadavers in his underground occult laboratory," he mutters. "How is that good for humanity?"

"Better understanding over anatomy leads to better medicine?" Desmond offers, grinning a little.

Dracula sighs. "Sometimes I do not understand you at all," he mutters. "Very well, we will give the books for Leonardo to study – with one caveat."

"Ooh, a compromise. I'm all good with compromise, yeah. What'cha got?"

"The books will go – and stay – in my castle, and he studies them there," Dracula says.

"… er," Desmond says, hesitant. "You – want Leonardo to go to your… castle."

Dracula gives him a sideways look. "The young man is _very_ interested in my libraries. Among other things."

"Other things," Desmond repeats warily.

"Yes," Dracula agrees, amused, and gives him a look. "Other things."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for death, autopsy and considerations upon a liver.

There is something in Florence to recommend itself, after all. The architecture is pleasant enough to look at and the city is clean, much cleaner than other human cities Dracula had travelled in, that much is true. But he thinks it's the spirit of the people. Paola and her industrious courtesans, who despite knowing the dangers approach him with offers and suggestive smiles. Leonardo's wide-eyed and frankly rather concerning excitement over forbidden magics, and how to use them to _accomplish_ things.

The hired killers in the night, which Desmond dispatches some blocks away from La Rosa Colta…

"Sometimes I do wonder about your morals," Dracula comments, watching the human drag the hooded figures into an enclosed inner courtyard, hiding them in the shadows of its walls and flowers. "Did the Mentor not tell you to not to kill people? Here I thought you deferred to her will."

"Assassinating high profile targets is a bit different from taking care of the trash," Desmond says, grunting as he throws the body into the shadows. "And if she has a problem with me defending my life, she can take it up with someone who cares."

"Indeed," Dracula comments, a little amused. "And when those bodies are found and people start looking for their killers?"

"Eh," Desmond says dismissively, and then pickpockets the men he killed. "So as long as it doesn't go back to La Rosa Colta."

One moment Desmond stands in defence of humanity, preaching of its virtues – the next he kills men left and right, without a hint of remorse. Humans, they do live to be contradictory. "Those bodies could make fine material for Leonardo," Dracula comments. "He expressed a certain lack of fresh cadavers to study."

"Yeah, sure – except his place is half across the city, and I am not carrying dead bodies around for that long – that's just asking for trouble," Desmond says. "Why do you think I'm hiding them?"

"Please," Dracula says and holds up his hand. "Let me."

Desmond finishes robbing the dead men and then Dracula takes the bodies, hiding them in a pocket dimension – one not attached to Hell. "I will take these to Leonardo while you go about your… Assassin business."

"You don't want to go see the Auditore?" Desmond asks, surprised and a little disappointed.

"The Mentor did not much care for my presence, and no doubt you will speak freer once alone. As it is, I have books to deliver to Leonardo," Dracula says and looks at him. "Or do you need me to hold your hand there as well?"

"Hey," the human says, a little affronted. "Who's holding whose hand here? The only reason you're in Florence is because I asked you."

"Yes, evidently because you were too much of a coward to go alone," Dracula agrees wryly.

Desmond makes a face at that and then, paradoxically, grins. "You can't deny it's doing you good, though," he says. "Look at you, emoting and everything, it's beautiful. I'll see you later then, at Paola's place, if not sooner at Leonardo's."

"Mm," Dracula agrees and then watches the human head off – and even that Desmond cannot do normally, scaling up a wall and then heading away on the rooftops, rather than on the streets. He makes quite the sight, in his cape and coat… almost impressive, for all that it's utterly ridiculous.

It's… somewhat annoying, having Desmond's loyalties split so. But he knows better than to push it – were Desmond an animal, he'd be a cat, and cats cannot be ordered around. Not even cat demons.

Turning away, Dracula looks down at the darkened street and then continues on, towards the occultist's house. There's a light on behind the dark, intentionally blocked windows, and Leonardo is quick to open the door at the first knock – and then, quick to look disappointed.

"Evening, Master Dracula. Messere Miles isn't with you?" the human says, stepping aside to let him in.

"He has business elsewhere. Are you aware of the Assassin Brotherhood?" Dracula asks, stepping in.

"Peripherally – I know Madame Paola works for them, but I haven't met them personally," Leonardo answers, and closes the door. "I – does Messere Miles have dealings with them?"

Humans, so unsubtle. "He is one – an Assassin," Dracula answers. "And so he has, indeed, some dealings with them. I brought your books back, and I have something for you I think you might find interesting."

Leonardo looks torn between asking more about Desmond and his intellectual curiosity – the latter wins, if barely. "Then by all means, please – to my laboratory."

Leonardo's laboratory is impressive for a human's self-created workspace, especially considering the steps Leonardo had to go to keep it hidden and safe. It's still cramped, poorly ventilated and somewhat unsanitary – Leonardo knows to wash after working with bodies, but the viscera has already seeped into the floor, the dried blood having become a permanent fixture. The conditions are far from ideal – they must be restraining the young Maestro in his work.

"Firstly, you lamented the lack of bodies to autopsy," Dracula says.

"Yes, that – it was mostly only idle musing," the blond human says and then stutters to a halt, when Dracula lifts his cape and opens the space of his dimensional storage, letting the bodies fall. For a moment, he looks astonished – even horrified. "Did – did you kill these men?"

"Desmond did – they were looking for him due to some poorly restrained thievery he's been committing," Dracula scoffs and then smothers the urge to roll his eyes at how Leonardo's horror immediately fades. Honestly. "I figured you might find some use for them, but if not…"

"No, no, please – I think I can find some use for them, yes," Leonardo says quickly and then crouches down to examine the dead. "He stabbed them? With a slender blade, I see – oh, it goes quite deep, let me get my measuring spike -"

"I imagine you will have opportunities to question Desmond on the methods of murder later," Dracula says and then moves to the table. "I will lay your books here."

"Thank you, Master Dracula," Leonardo says, while getting a slender spike to check how deep the stabs Desmond had made were – they were mortal. "You read them fast. I thought you'd like to keep them longer."

"Hm," Dracula answers, watching him. "There was little new in them, though the theories you put forth were interesting. Have you elaborated on the Chaos Enrichment Theorem yet?"

"Haven't had the time, I'm afraid – and I would like to experiment some more before I do, to confirm some of my findings further. It's a few years away, I think," the human answers apologetically, checking the bodies over and then standing up. "I need to get these into the cold storage – this won't take but a moment."

Dracula waits, as the human lifts the bodies up, one at a time. He's strong, for a human – side effect of all the secret work he does, no doubt. It is not as if he could hire builders to enlarge his secret laboratory, the work had to be done by him.

There was a time when there were humans in Dracula's castle, more than he can now remember. All the servants had been human, the maids, the butler, the majordomo, the workers, the guards… once it had been a human castle, once he had ruled over them as the lord of their human lands. Things had changed – time had passed, Wallachia had changed, and he'd begun to travel. The castle had been converted from a stationary object into a travelling machine. His humans began to die – or change.

For the most part they still remain, in one shape or another – but they aren't human anymore. Time, magic and Hell had twisted them. Or else he himself had, in order to keep their service past their mortal life spans. No doubt his latest dismissal of them had also wrought some new changes to them, his… shadow servants.

Should Desmond stay, should Leonardo do the same…

Leonardo comes back, washing his hands quickly and wiping them clean. "Thank you for the bodies," he says. "Hopefully I can get to them before rigor mortis sets in. Now, how can I be of service?"

Dracula sits down by one of the many writing desks, looking at him. "I do not know how long Desmond and I will remain in Florence – eventually, I will return to my castle in the mountains of Făgăraș," and Desmond had _better_ come with him. "Should Desmond's business here be finished tonight, perhaps we will leave with it. As such, I'd like to issue you an invitation."

Leonardo stills at that. "Invitation. To – to your castle, Master Dracula?"

"Yes," Dracula says, watching him closely. There is little chance of the man declining. "I am missing a skilled Alchemist – or perhaps you would enjoy the title of Master Librarian? Whatever you prefer. The laboratories of my castle have gone empty for some time, at any rate, and I am interested in seeing your work develop in better conditions."

"I, ah…" Leonardo hesitates. "To work at your laboratories – would I have access to your libraries?"

"Yes," Dracula agrees. "And all the research materials I have collected over the centuries. I have quite the collection – and it is lacking a knowledgeable manager."

"Oh – oh my," the human murmurs and leans onto his autopsy table, looking astonished. "That's – that's quite an invitation."

"I understand that among the artisans in your country, it is not unusual, to serve a patron in their house?" Dracula comments. "If money is an issue, I can compensate you for your time, of course."

"Thank you, but… surely there are others? I have no formal training – in magic, I mean, or in the occult. All I know is self-taught, and I know I am lacking some key knowledge –" Leonardo says, hesitant.

"Key knowledge, which you would have access to at my castle," the vampire says, dismissive. "You would want for nothing, as far as learning materials go."

The human swallows, certainly conflicted – but also wise enough to suspect a trap. "It is a generous offer, Master Dracula, I'd be loathe to refuse, but… why me?"

Dracula looks at him and then looks away, at the laboratory. The simple answer is… simple. Desmond likes Leonardo in that human way Dracula doubts he could ever again entertain himself.  And Desmond is a living man – or at least he is for now. And living men, mortal men, _human men,_ have needs. Desmond isn't anywhere near as… _licentious_ as the likes of Godbrand, but he needs human things, human connection. Arrival in Florence is a proof of that.

Desmond had changed here. He is less tense, less wound up, less… lonely.

Companionship, warmth, kindness, these are things humans need. They are, as Desmond himself said, a breed of social animals. They need the companionship of other humans to thrive. Lisa had once even expressed that humans need the _touch_ of other humans, too, otherwise they might go mad. As a vampire, Dracula knows not these things – he needs them not… but he can see their effect on Desmond.

And choosing between the cold, empty, lifeless castle and all the life and love Florence could offer him, what would man like Desmond, who knows all the faults and vices of humanity and loves it anyway… what would he choose? Should the Assassins call onto him to stay, should they offer him a place, should his _family_ welcome him in their midst…

Even Lisa had chosen humanity, in the end, to her doom.

With Leonardo in the castle, perhaps it would skew the choice to castle's favour, and Desmond wouldn't be quite as likely to leave.

And the other reason is… complicated. It's a twisted yarn of _what Lisa would have wanted_ and _what Lisa would have liked to see_. It's memories of candle lit dinners before Adrian, before love, when she regaled him with her vision, of a wiser, smarter humanity, where no one was ignorant and knowledge was at everyone's fingertips. Leonardo da Vinci is all Lisa wanted to see in humanity – curiosity and innovation with the will to _do better_. Laws and societal mores had driven the man underground, but he still wishes to do better.

 _"I'm not satisfied with only writing about the world,"_ he said the day before, motioning at the books. _"I want to change it, too."_

How like Desmond, to revere a man like this. Lisa would have liked them both. She would have been delighted by them.

Dracula closes his eyes and sighs. "Four months ago, my wife was put to death," he says. "She was human, and much like yourself, a scientist, looking into secret knowledge to change the world and its people for the better. She was burned at the stake as a witch."

"I – I'm so sorry for your loss," Leonardo says quietly, sitting down.

Dracula shakes his head. "I made an oath to destroy humanity in rebuttal, to summon a Hellish army and paint the world in human blood," he says and scoffs at himself. "Since then, I have seen… some error in that line of thought. Humanity isn't worth destroying, and I haven't the energy to bother with it. No, instead I will tear down their faith, and all that which makes men ignorant and evil."

"I – I'm sorry, I don't quite…."

Dracula opens his eyes and looks at him. "Humans suppress knowledge and burn those who seek it," he says. "You must have seen it too – you must have known some compatriots in your own search for knowledge, who were stopped along the way."

Leonardo hesitates and then looks down. "My mother," he says. "She was something of a… a hedge witch, I think. She knew a little of herbology, could understand nature, make simple cures, some little spells for good fortune. She sometimes treated the people of my father's household for their ills – that is how they met, and how I was born. I was… six when she was burned at the stake as a witch, when a neighbour accused her of casting a curse on their house. She didn't, but… it didn't matter, because she did know a little magic, and that was too much."

Dracula looks at him, not sure how to take this tether of shared sorrow. "I see."

Leonardo nods and looks away. "I have seen and heard of others burned, for similar reasons," he says quietly. "Things are easier here, the Signoria is more forgiving of the pursuit of knowledge, if you can present it right. But knowledge of magic and the study of true science are still somewhat suppressed, even here."

"So it is," Dracula says grimly. "I believe I intend to go against that, against all who would burn women as witches for the crime of knowing things they do not."

Leonardo looks at him warily. "That sounds like… quite the struggle."

"It likely will be," Dracula agrees and leans back on the simple stool, looking at him. "But I have resources. I have time. I have _power_. What I need is men and women, to generate knowledge for human consumption. Men like you."

Leonardo fiddles with his hands, looking away, thoughtful. "I'm a scribe," he says then, quiet. "Most of what I do is write letters for simple folk to send to their families afar – to be read to them by another scribe. Most humans don't know how to read. Generating knowledge is all well and good, Master Dracula, but if only the already learned can take advantage of it…"

Dracula looks at him. "In my castle there are devices that record speech, and which can then remake it, as clear as the moment it was spoken. There are other means to convey information," he says. "So, young Maestro – will you join me in making people… better?"

Leonardo looks up, smiling faintly at how he says it – through his teeth, like it's a curse. "May I have some time to think on it?" he asks. "It's quite the proposal."

"You have a day," Dracula says and waves a hand. "Now, what are you working on tonight?"

Leonardo looks away, looking around the laboratory. "I meant to practice my circle drawing – but now that I have fresh bodies, I would rather have a go at autopsy," he says thoughtfully. "While the bodies are still so fresh and there is no breakdown in tissues."

"By all means," Dracula says, motioning him to go ahead. "I would be interested in seeing how much you know and what your methods are."

* * *

Desmond joins them some four hours later, by which time Dracula has taken off his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and is in the process of explaining the function of human liver to Leonardo and why precisely it works so well in some rituals and is harmful in others.

"… even vampires aren't aware of all of its functions, but the function of the liver is most clearly seen in alcoholics," he's saying, when the Assassin slips into the laboratory. "And it looks like this man enjoyed his alcohol – see, here? Signs of yellowing. Alcohol is largely broken down in the liver, but it's not a perfect process and it causes damage to the cells – like here. Scar tissue."

"I see, I see," Leonardo says interestedly. "Oh, now I really wish I had one of those _microscopes_ you mentioned, I imagine the cells look different here?"

"Very different," Dracula agrees and looks up to Desmond. The Assassin looks… pensive. "How did your business go?"

"It went… well, I think," Desmond says and shrugs, taking a seat. "Relatively speaking. You guys look like you're having fun."

Poor Leonardo almost drops the liver he's holding, looking up at him and then down at their gruesome work, and then at himself. He's bloodstained all over – and the apron he wears had only caught so much of it.

"It has been interesting," Dracula says while moving away to wash his hands. "What does relatively speaking _mean_?"

"Objects in motion may look to move faster or slower relative to the velocity of the observer?" Desmond offers and Dracula gives him a glare. "Yeah, okay – I think she wants me to mind my own business from here on out."

"What?" Dracula asks sharply. "After what you did for them?"

"She was grateful about that, yeah – not so grateful about the alarm I raised," Desmond admits, straightening out his legs. "I should have proceeded with more caution and all that. Apparently Assassins here aren't into shows of force or skill – they're more into more clandestine observation and all that, proceeding with caution. Which makes sense, in hindsight. She's grateful for my aid, but wants her people to handle the whole thing from here on out."

Dracula considers him while quickly scrubbing his arms and hands clean. "Are you satisfied with that?"

"Eh," Desmond answers and looks away. "It was a bit presumptuous and, uh, conceited of me, I guess. Thinking it was up to me to change the future."

Dracula narrows his eyes at that, while Leonardo looks between them and then the liver before going to put it away. "I see," the vampire says. Desmond doesn't seem unhappy exactly, just… dissatisfied. It's good for Dracula, Desmond is a little less likely to stay after this, but… "You don't seem happy with that."

"Yeah. It's not the same," Desmond says and leans back, staring up at the low ceiling. "It's not the same at all."

Some differences between his world and this world, then? Hm. Dracula dries his hands and then asks, slowly, "Does that mean your business here is concluded?"

Desmond blinks at that and then looks down sharply, looking at him. "We're still on a holiday," he says accusingly. "And you're still in need of a break."

"It's been _days_ , Desmond," Dracula says, sighing.

"Three days! Three days is nothing," the human says and grins, swinging up to his feet. "That's barely a holiday. I mean, you look like you're having fun here, imagine what else we can do around here? Other fun cadaver exploring exploits there's to be done."

Leonardo wipes his hand, the liver safely set aside, and looks at them curiously. "So this is a… holiday, the reason you're here in the first place?" he asks curiously.

"Yes, and it's obviously doing him good, too," Desmond says, coming closer and peering at the opened up cadaver. "Going out, practicing local crafts – it's a good start. More of that for at least two more weeks, and we're all set."

"Two more weeks," Dracula repeats, incredulous. "You mean for us to stay in this church-infested sun-accursed place for _two more weeks_?"

"Maybe three," Desmond says and pats him on the shoulder. "Come on, it'll be fun, without any assassinations and stuff in the way. I mean, I bet Leonardo knows all the fun immoral illegal church-forbidden things to do around here."

The Assassin aims a grin at Leonardo, and the poor occultist seems to barely be able to string a sentence together. "Y-yes, I mean – there are some interesting – um, sites? Around the city? Um… I could," he stops and tries to gather himself and smile at Desmond in return. "I could show you, certainly."

"Perfect," Desmond says, beaming at him from under his hood, and the occultist nearly swoons.

Dracula sighs and runs a hand over his face. Well, there goes any hope of Leonardo being any sort of restraining influence on Desmond.


	16. Chapter 16

Desmond is trying to distract himself. He knows that, and knowing it makes it not work as well as he would like – but for the few moments here and there when it does work, it's almost worth it – except then he circles back down to it and remembers and thinks, _oh, god, what a damned waste_. And how shitty is that of him? Because it is. And also it is a damned waste.

Leonardo tries so hard to entertain them too, the poor guy. He's taken them to Florentian catacombs, where there is an actual trapped ghoul, left behind by some old magician or maybe a vampire lord in the past, or something, and Desmond can barely pay attention to it.

"How long has it been here?" Dracula asks, curious, while the ghoul shakes the bars of the cage he's trapped in.

"Decades, easily – it was old by the time I was told about it, and no one remembers time it wasn't here," Leonardo says excitedly. "We've studied it – the occultists of Florence and I – but we could never quite confirm if it was re-animated because of connection to vampirism, or if it was necromancy."

"Hm. It's the work of a Devil Forgemaster, I'd say," Dracula answers. "Looks like a low level servant – I had similar ghouls in my castle once, which managed the general upkeep. This one must have been made with great care, for it to be still functional… You've never thought to take it out of the cage?"

"Well, it was safe here and not going anywhere – and no one but us knew of it, so… it always seemed the safest bet," Leonardo says, throwing glances at Desmond. "And it's something of a rite of passage, to see it, and make some small study of it. How one reacts to a living dead is a great indicator of one's true interest, in these matters."

Desmond hangs in the back, letting the magical experts geek out, and keeps thinking about the Auditore house. And damn… what a waste. And he's an asshole for thinking it.

Well, at least Dracula and Leonardo are having fun – that's really the main thing here, that Dracula is distracted and enjoying himself. Right? Everything else is superfluous. Damn, it really is superfluous – and he's conceited, thinking that he and all his experiences matter here. Maria made damn sure he got that.

"There are other chambers of some interest here," Leonardo says. "A very old ritual chamber, the inscription there is largely in Enochian – it's most fascinating – please, come this way."

Desmond follows Dracula, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and sighing. Ghouls and summoning chambers under Florence – really, this is not much like his world, is it? Leonardo is a magician, Paola is a vampire, and Ezio will probably never be an Assassin. What a damn shame.

The hell is he doing here anyway…?

"You seem distracted," Dracula comments.

"Mmh," Desmond answers and tries to bring his head back to the present. "Sorry. Magic kind of goes over my head."

The vampire considers him. "I don't think it does, at that. You just pretend it does," he says and looks ahead. "You know the reason why your tattoo works, and that is magic."

Desmond sighs and kicks a pebble on the floor with the toe of his boot. "Well, yeah. But that's not really a spell, right, it's just faith or whatever?"

"Faith is magic," the vampire says. "The reason your tattoo works is the same reason why a Devil Forgemaster can raise the dead – belief."

"Right," Desmond says and leans his head back, eyeing the ceiling. Maria knows magic, he's pretty sure. She certainly handled the stuff he stole from Pazzi with the sort of casual efficiency, like someone who knew what they were doing.

"You could likely do magic yourself, if you put your mind to it," Dracula comments, and Desmond looks down at him incredulously. "Considering the faith you have in your two goddesses, you could use your belief for Holy spells, likely."

"What," Desmond says. "Like _, get thee behind me, Satan_?"

"If you believed in the power of your goddesses to banish evil… yes," the vampire says and casts him a look. "Do you?"

Desmond scoffs. "No," he says. No, what Minerva and Juno can do is manipulate history and people, and that's about it. They aren't _magic_ , just… equipped with really powerful technology. Which really puts into question _why_ knowledge about them works as _faith_ and _magic_ here, but maybe that's just a… a translation error between universes, a little glitch in the matrix. Or maybe here they _are_ actual real _Goddesses_. Who the _Hell_ even knows. 

"I'm an atheist," Desmond says, in lieu of explaining.

"Despite all the evidence to the contrary," Dracula comments wryly and looks ahead. "You are capable of magic, are you not, Leonardo?"

"Er, yes, somewhat," Leonardo says. "But my spells don't _always_ work. I prefer alchemy, really."

"I assume you've tried necromancy?"

"Well," Leonardo says and coughs. "I've dabbled, a little – with little success."

Dracula hums. "Tell me about it."

Desmond loses the track of their discussion, looking away. Minerva, hmm. There's a thought – maybe he could tempt Dracula to take him to the Vatican so that he could have a chat with her. Though, considering what the vampire's feelings about Florence were, Vatican and Rome would probably be ten times as bad, being the seat of catholic faith and all that. But if this world had the same roots as his – and he thinks it does, then… There should be a Temple under the Sistine Chapel. And maybe Minerva is still somehow connected to it…

Maybe she could explain all this shit. Not… not that Desmond doesn't have some idea. Hell being Grey explains a lot, most of it, but how it ended up like this, and how did magic turn into – into _all_ it is here, that's… that's up in the air still. Though whether knowing will actually make any difference…

"…messere Miles."

Desmond blinks and looks at Leonardo. "Sorry, what?" and then looks around.

They're in a bigger underground chamber, it kind of reminds him of some of the tombs Ezio had raided in his time – old and decrepit and vaguely illogical with its placement. There are grand columns and arches and big statues near the walls, really impressive and begging the question who built it and why and _how_. In the floor there are carved shapes, circles and symbols and lines. Dracula is examining them interestedly.

"I asked if you had seen anything like this before?" Leonardo asks, pushing a strand of blond hair behind his ear.

"Er, no, I guess not – if you mean the thing on the floor," Desmond says, awkwardly. "What is it?"

"I'm only half fluent in Enochian, so I am not entirely sure, but I believe it is some sort of transmutation circle," Leonardo says and smiles almost slyly at him. "For creation of demons, maybe?"

"It's very old," Dracula comments and crouches on the ground, his cape pooling around him – dramatic bastard. "Older than this chamber, certainly. These symbols are… thousands of years old."

"Yes, I thought so!" Leonardo says excitedly. "We believe it was moved here by ancient Hermeticists from somewhere else, piecemeal, though we don't know from where."

"Hmm," Dracula says, running his fingers over the symbols. "Fascinating."

Nerds, Desmond thinks, and then looks down at the circle. Then, blinking, he steps back and looks at it more closely. It's… huh. The thing is impressive and missing pieces, and now that he looks at it, it looks… vaguely familiar. The text. It has the same style as the writings in Minerva and Juno's Temples, and the Grand Temple. Isu script.

"Enochian?" Desmond asks, tilting his head.

"The language of angels," Dracula says, somewhat sarcastically. "The First Language, from which Adamic – the language of Adam and Eve – was derived from, and from which all human languages sprung from. Or so people think, anyway."

"Enochian," Desmond says. "Adamic. Huh."

Dracula looks up. "What?" he asks and stands up swiftly.

"Nothing," Desmond says and steps back from the circle, to see it in its entirety. He might recognize the symbols, but he's no Clay – he can't read it. "Can you read it, what does it say?"

"It is a circle intended for the manipulation of human form – creation of mutations, enhancements, perhaps golems. Likely someone used it to create themselves more powerful servants – or perhaps to make themselves more powerful. Such things were common, once upon a time," Dracula says and narrows his eyes at him. "You are a poor liar, Desmond – what is it?"

"Nothing, just the writing looked a bit familiar, that's all," Desmond says and shrugs. "Didn't know it was called Enochian, that's all. Language of Angels. That's kind of hilarious, really."

"Hilarious? What do you know it as, then?" Dracula asks very intently, and Leonardo looks between them with interest.

"You know, I never thought to ask if the language actually had a name?" Desmond says and shakes his head. "I just thought of it as the _language of the First Civilisation_. Or, of the Isu."

"The… _Isu_?" Dracula asks, narrowing his eyes further.

"Yes – the aforementioned First Civilisation. People who came before humans, you know," Desmond says and waves a hand. "Those people."

Dracula lifts his head slightly, staring at him hard, while Leonardo looks fascinated. "These are things people know, where you come from?" the Vampire asks interestedly.

"Some people do, some don't," Desmond says and coughs, looking away. Some better than others, really. "Anyway, this is fascinating. Anything else around here – any secret chambers full of treasure maybe? Oh, or monsters." He could do with a fight against a monster, right about now. Something to take his mind off things could come in handy.

Leonardo looks dispirited. "Sadly, this is about it," he says. "Occultists have been coming and going here for decades, I'm afraid there's not much left unexplored here. I'm sorry."

"It's still very cool," Desmond assures him, which makes Leonardo sigh.

Dracula looks at the occultist and then considers Desmond and rolls his eyes. "Well," he says. "Let us make our way to the surface then. It will be morning soon, and I'd rather not spend my day in a tomb."

* * *

 

When Dracula heads for La Rosa Colta, Desmond intends to go and… circle around the area near the Auditore house. Just to have a second look, make sure he didn't get the wrong impression or something. That he didn't _miss_ something. Just in case.

Before he can go though, Leonardo catches his attention with a careful, "Messere Miles?"

"You know, you can call me Desmond," the Assassin says. "Thank you for tonight, by the way – keeping Dracula interested in anything is no small task. And I am running out of things to throw at him to keep him distracted."

"You seem to have a very close bond," Leonardo comments, looking at him interestedly. "You are his… attendant, I assume?"

Desmond considers that and then makes a face. "I guess," he says. "Don't really know if that's right. He doesn't pay me or anything. I'm just… around."

Leonardo nods, slowly, looking thoughtful and a little confused. "But you serve him," he says and then clears his throat and looks away. "Master Dracula offered me an – occupation, I suppose, at his castle. I was hoping to ask you about it. You have not eaten, yes? Would you like to join me for – er, breakfast?"

Desmond blinks and turns to him. God, he doesn't even remember when he last ate. "I'd _love to_ ," he says emphatically. With Dracula, he keeps forgetting to eat – or keeps ending up in situations where he just can't. Or the food ends up smeared all over the dining room walls, which is a rotten shame. "Yes, please."

Leonardo smiles at him, bright, and then motions him to follow. "I don't have much, and I will have to cook, but – please."

Desmond ends up sitting in Leonardo's somewhat cramped little kitchen, while the occultist frets over the stove – it would take at least an hour for it to warm up – and then gives up to offer him bread and cheese instead. "I'm sorry it's not much, I suppose you're used to better fare."

"You suppose wrong. Dracula's castle has been empty for months, there's almost nothing there for humans. I'm living on rice and wine, more often than not," Desmond says. "And a bit of salted pork, though even that's running out. If you're going to join us, I'm going to have to nag him to get us some proper food – I know he can do it, he just… doesn't bother."

"Er, I see?" Leonardo says and sits across from him, hesitant. "What is it like, in the castle? I've heard stories, of course, but… I daren't put stock to them."

Desmond looks at him thoughtfully. Leonardo is younger than him, here and now – it's kind of interesting to realise. He's what, twenty three here? He doesn't even have a beard yet. Young and inexperienced – weird to apply that to Leonardo, having always seen him from Ezio's point of view. Ezio, who currently is sixteen and… yeah.

"Well," Desmond says and breaks a piece of bread. "It's… different. It makes no logical, architectural sense, most of the time, I guess because it's held together by magic, and frequent trips to Hell mangle the place up, apparently."

"I'm sorry, what? Trips to _Hell_?" Leonardo asks faintly.

"You know the castle travels? I've never seen it, but apparently it does – and it does it by popping in and out of Hell," Desmond says and shoves the bread into his mouth. It's dry and hard and makes a worrying noise between his teeth – but still, _bread_. Bread is amazing. "And Hell does weird things to the things inside it, so the castle gets shuffled around, I guess, whenever it goes there. If you ignore the general layout of the castle, though, it's pretty amazing. Enormous and grandiose."

Leonardo leans in, his eyes shining. "Oh, tell me more?"

So, Desmond regales the guy with stories of what he's seen in the castle – the library that went up several stories of endless bookcases, some of which frankly defied gravity. The enormous vast ballroom, fit for thousands and thousands of people. The hallways, covered in fancy paintings and rich carpets, which went on forever. Dozens of bedrooms, storage rooms, sitting rooms, dressing rooms…

"There's even a chapel there – it's as big as a cathedral." Desmond says and shakes his head. "Everything in the place is just… so big. I've been living there for weeks, but I haven't seen everything yet."

"It sounds incredible," Leonardo breathes. "But also… very lonely. Such a big space, so empty."

"It is a little, I guess, yeah," Desmond admits and leans back a little, his food finished. "Why do you think I dragged Dracula here? Being in the castle just depressed him worse."

"You care much for him," Leonardo comments, casting him a look. "For his well being."

"I suppose. Someone has to, there… wasn't really anyone else there when I came along, so I figured I might as well," Desmond shrugs and looks around. "So, are you thinking of accepting his offer? What did he offer you, exactly?"

"The use of his laboratories and libraries in my research," Leonardo says. "Though he did not seem to have any specific research in mind. I got the impression he wishes to employ a manager to his collection."

"He does have a big collection," Desmond says, looking at him. So, Dracula didn't tell Leonardo about the books? Huh. Wanted to make it seem like it was his own idea? Jerk. "I think you'd enjoy exploring it. But, a word of warning… he is a vampire."

"I had noticed this, yes," Leonardo says amusedly, shaking his head.

"He's also working through mourning, still, and that comes with some severe mood swings. He's in a good mood right now, relatively speaking. But back when I joined him, he really wasn't," Desmond tells him seriously. "And every time we ran into each other in the castle, it ended up in a fight. It took him weeks of mood swings to calm down. Living with him is amazing – but I wouldn't call it safe."

Leonardo looks at him consideringly and then looks down at the table. "You manage it," he then says.

"Sometimes only by outrunning him," Desmond says. "I think he's getting better. But he's still a very dangerous person. I mean – he's _Dracula_."

Leonardo tilts his head slightly, looking at him. "Some things are worth the danger, I've found," he murmurs and smiles a little. "You must think so too… Desmond."

Um. Oh _wow_. "Um, yeah," Desmond says, blinking and looking at him in a new light  – because that, that was flirty. He thought that Leonardo was checking him out before, but now Leonardo is _totally_ flirting with him. "Yeah, I do."

Leonardo smiles at him, a slight flush on his cheeks, and Desmond takes him in, feeling like he's seeing the guy for real for the first time. He has similar hair as Leonardo Ezio first met did – blond, wavy, slightly longer than Leonardo da Vinci the artist did have. Long enough to be easily tied back – and man, that would be a sight, wouldn't it, Leonardo with his hair tied back. This Leonardo is a lot paler than the artist one – it makes his freckles stand out even more, though there are fewer of them, just a cluster across the bridge of his nose and high on his cheeks. Not much time spent in sun, sketching and painting. He still wears the same hat, though.

It's… cute. He's different, life's treated him differently, but still, underneath, there's some of the same Leonardo there. There's even a spark of mischief here, slightly more subdued maybe, but it's there. Desmond kind of wants to blow on it.

"So, uh," Desmond says and leans in a little, resting his elbows on the table between them. "What kind of things would you do, with all the resources a vampire lord could give you?"

Leonardo's eyes widen a little and he smiles. "Oh, there are so many experiments I would like too," he says. "And devices I would like to build, I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Start with the first that comes to mind," Desmond says, smiling back. "Another flying thing, maybe? You know, Dracula can grow wings?"

" _Oh_ , he can? That's amazing, I have always heard of vampiric flight – do you think it's possible for…"

Needless to say, the breakfast stretches on for a while.

* * *

 

Ezio doesn't look at all unhappy, that's what makes Desmond feel the worst about the whole thing. He looks the same as usual, really, he even dresses the same as he did, when Desmond knew him at seventeen in another world. Desmond even catches him flirting with what looks like a girl from the neighbourhood the Auditore live in this world, _shamelessly_ telling her that, "You have the scent of a bouquet of flowers and your laughter sounds like silver bells," much to the girl's obvious delight. So, all the old charm and charisma are obviously there.

"I am an asshole, aren't I?" Desmond murmurs, sitting crouched on the corner of a rooftop, watching Ezio as he sits on the pier, enjoying the sunny weather. The guy is sixteen here, and it sounds like he's just starting to get confident with his voice having finished breaking – it's not yet in as low registers as he gets when he's older, but he can already use it to his advantage, and does so shamelessly, flirting with anything that moves. People around him – and there's a lot of them – seem to enjoy it too. The guy is obviously having a good time.

And yet, it feels like such a shame.

"So, this is the one who has you so distracted?"

Desmond blinks and turns to look behind himself. Then, somewhat incredulous, he looks towards the horizon over Florence. The sun is still up. "What the hell – shouldn't you be burning?"

Dracula arches a brow. He has his cape on – it's grown a hood for the occasion, and the vampire is all but swathed in dark cloth, completely covered. "I am old enough to have some resistance," he says. "Though it's far from pleasant. I came to see what had you so affected." The vampire peers over the edge of the rooftop and down on the pier. The river Arno spreads out before them, calm in the late evening, and with the day being relatively warm, Ezio isn't the only one there, enjoying the sun.

"Quite the entourage of women he has," Dracula comments.

"He has a way with them, always had," Desmond agrees. It also kind of sounds like Ezio might've turned up the charm all the way to the max, here. Could be a coping mechanism, and if there was a person who would cope with misfortune and disability by being an outrageous flirt and making girls laugh, it's Ezio.

"I assume that's the one, then? Your Ancestor from another world."

Desmond swallows and looks down. "Yeah," he agrees. "He was the greatest Assassin who ever lived, he completely transformed the Brotherhood. He was… incredible. Friend of mine did a tally of all the rumours and stories about him, and came to the conclusion that if it was all true, he killed about eighty thousand people in his life."

Dracula arches a brow at that. "Are you crying?" he asks incredulously.

"Shut up, I'm not," Desmond mutters and wipes at his eyes. "Fuck, I am such a fucking asshole, what's wrong with me?" he mutters and draws a shuddering breath, looking at Ezio – who is waving, playfully, at a group of departing girls.

Ezio's just _fine_ , he's obviously happy and enjoying life. He's also probably never going to be an Assassin in this world – because he's completely blind. And Desmond is an ableist piece of shit, probably, feeling sad about could have beens and should have beens of another world. A world where Ezio Auditore might never be an Assassin, never become the Mentor… Well, he could, blind people can fight, the fuck Desmond knows what they can or can't do, but still… Christ.

Why his vision – why is _that_ the thing that's different? Because of Eagle Vision? Desmond had begun to wonder if that was somehow different here, with all the Seer stuff, and with Altaïr being apparently a magician as well as Assassin, but _damn_ … Did Eagle Vision lineage somehow get mangled by magic, like Dracula's castle, just… fucked up by time and whatever crap is going on in this place? Is that why Desmond won't be born here? Because Ezio's genetic lineage is one gene off its target course?

Desmond almost jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder – Dracula.

"Are you alright?" Dracula asks.

Desmond snorts and wipes at his eyes again. "I guess I hoped this would be one thing that would stay the same," he says. "Ezio was such… such a big part of my existence, and… and it's just _different_."

Dracula doesn't say anything for a moment, only squeezes his shoulder gently. "Coming here, you lost your world," he comments. "What was it you said about the stages of grief? I believe it was denial that came first?"

"Oh, screw you, don't use my psychology against me," Desmond laughs wetly, and then winces back a little when Ezio turns his head, seeking the source of the noise with his pale, blind eyes.

Dracula grips his shoulder. "Come," he says. "The sun is irritating me. Let us leave."

Dracula sucks at being comforting, Desmond thinks, but lets himself be drawn away, while below, on the pier, Ezio catches another lovely scent and turns away, never knowing, never seeing him.

His blind Prophet, who will likely never see godly visions in this world.

"I wanna find Minerva and shake her until she explains all of this," Desmond says miserably while Dracula guides him away. "But first I wanna get really, really drunk, please."

"Well," the vampire says, eyeing him with concern. "I can arrange one of those things."

"Great. Let's go."


	17. Chapter 17

There was a time when Leonardo had… prospects. He still remembers it, though most of those memories are likely a figment of his own imagination, built on the comments made by his maternal family and by the remnants of his mother's diaries. She'd written, once, not long before her death, about how Ser Piero had promised him education in his house, to be taught the basics of humanitarianism and to be given an apprenticeship that corresponded with his talents, whatever those were. A builder, a cobbler, whatever suited the purpose, so that one day Leonardo could do his part to support the family.

There was a page, where Caterina, his mother, had written in length about how her boy would be a learned man – even if only to an extent. _Provably_ learned, with a teacher and proper education. Not self taught like her, where she had to hide her own skills as much as she had to prove them, over and over, to people who discredited her. She'd imagined a life for him, of hard work and respect, and it had been glossy and beautiful.

It all burned away with her, of course, with her and with the disregard of Ser Piero, who rejected Leonardo as having any connection to him, and cut all ties. The last thing Leonardo remembers of the man was when he was nine, and the man had told him, _"Don't follow in your mother's footsteps, son. You are lucky you didn't already burn with her, as the son of a witch."_

What Leonardo is now doing is arguably worse than anything his mother had done – but he has the benefit of being a man. A man with self taught knowledge living in a city and collecting books isn't as suspicious as if a woman had done something similar. Sometimes it makes him feel bitter – sometimes it makes him wonder, "Oh, Father, if you could see me now."

He has not gone back to the Vinci village since leaving it, at the age of ten. He doesn't intend to now, either, and he likely never will, but for some reason he cannot help but think back to it. Vinci was a peaceful, lovely countryside town, surrounded by rolling hills, lush with greenery. The sort of place where nothing evil ever happened, and no evil ever sprung, or so it seemed. That's what the local priest always preaches in his memories, anyway, "There is no place for Evil or Witches in Vinci," and all that.

Pledging one's service to a Vampire Lord – the worst of them all, if rumours are to be believed… that's quite evil, isn't it? But then, so is resurrecting corpses – and while Leonardo has never succeeded in that, he's certainly tried. Magic in all it's forbidden forms fascinates him, always has, and it might be a morbid, vengeful sort of fascination at times, but he's never… truly thought of himself as evil.

Dracula might be evil. There are certainly stories to stand as testimony to that, and everyone has heard of corpses on spikes, lining the countryside around his castle. There are even illustrations. Certainly if there was proven evil in the world, that would be it, yes? And yet, that is not the image he and Desmond presented.

An immortal, mourning, and his attending, white-clad killer, comforting him. There are many descriptions one can place to it – Leonardo had penned a few already – but he cannot place the word _evil_ in there. It seemed many things, some beyond the comprehension of normal, ordinary men, perhaps, but… not evil. Evil is a crude, uncomfortable thing – Desmond crouched in front of Dracula asking him if he was alright as he wept blood, it seemed furthest from crude.

Leonardo puts away his tools, looking at the bags he'd already packed. He cannot imagine taking all of his things with anything but several carts, and Dracula and Desmond do not seem like men to travel with such encumbrances. His writing tools, his most prized forbidden books, some of his gathered supplies… it would leave a damned trail of forbidden knowledge, but in all likelihood he would never return. And Dracula would no doubt have more valuable knowledge in his keep.

Hoisting his bag to his shoulder, Leonardo looks around. The house had been on the verge of collapsing when he'd bought it. It had taken years to fix it – in truth, he is still fixing it. His thirst for knowledge had needed space, and his teachers had grown tired of his questions, so there had been no other way. It was all for the best, truly – the privacy of it had given him freedom to spread out his interests. And yet, it had been a constant source of fear. How long, he thought, how long until they came for him?

No one would come for him in a vampire castle – there were far more dangerous targets there, than the keeper of a collection. No one would come for his inclinations. Except perhaps Desmond, who'd leaned in that morning, and looked at him like… like he was worth being looked at.

It's all man like him could ask, surely. He'd be a fool to refuse. And yet he hesitates.

It's… a little like signing his soul off to the Devil, isn't it – he's getting all he could ask for yes, but at what cost? Had the cost been named, was there one? Dracula had even offered him _compensation_ , Leonardo had to assume it was meant as monetary. So, what would he have to give up in return? His humanity, perhaps? Was it worth it?

Knowledge, secrets, and freedom to experiment and build and test and try… and Desmond's smiles, the way he leaned in, way his eyes glinted under the shadow of his hood. Perhaps more, in the future.

It might be a trick, Desmond playing the temptress on Dracula's behalf, but God have mercy on him, Leonardo is not strong enough to resist it.

Taking a long, shuddering breath, Leonardo takes his bags, blows out the last candle, and turns away from his house – leaving behind knowledge, many works, and many bodies. Should anyone find it, there would be no returning for him. Not ever.

Perhaps that would be for the best.

* * *

 

"Oh, Leonardo, dear, it's been too long," Paola greets him, after the girls have fetched her. She kisses his cheeks and strokes his hair, fond but not seductive – she knows his inclinations, knew them before he dared to admit them himself. "You are always welcome – but what is this? Has something happened – your house, was it –?"

"No, not at all – I, ah, left. I received an offer – and I understand they're here, I mean. Master Dracula, and Desmond?" Leonardo asks, awkwardly. "Messere Miles, I mean."

"Ah," Paola says, blinking at him and looking at him more closely. "I didn't know you had contact with them – they made an offer to you?"

"Yes – I don't know if I am at liberty to discuss it, Paola, I am sorry – but I am here to accept it. Are they here?"

"Well. Yes," Paola says and purses her lips. "Busy getting the poor human drunk the last I saw them – please, come this way."

"The… poor human?" Leonardo asks, warily. Had they found a victim for Dracula? The man had been surprised by the blood-letting tool, which made him wonder if he only fed from living subjects, but… he didn't think Paola would let such a thing occur in her house. And the idea of getting the said victim _drunk_ first, that seems especially objectionable, and not something he imagined Desmond and Dracula would even do, they seemed far too classy and refined for such underhanded methods.

He follows Paola, giving smiles to the girls he's familiar with on the way, until they come to the second floor, where Paola knocks on the door. "My lord, Leonardo da Vinci is here to see you," she says without opening the door. "Should I send him away?"

"No," comes Dracula's voice through the door. "Enter."

Leonardo steels himself for whatever he might see. He's heard stories, read them too, of vampire debauchery, lovely women spread out bare and beautiful on bloodstained sheets, caught in mortal act of ecstasy as they died at a vampire's kiss, and all that. Those too are forbidden texts, though for wholly different reasons. There was something terribly titillating about the concept, after all, the two, pleasure and death, being so interwoven. To his shame, he had not been entirely unaffected by the idea – and perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he'd been a little disappointed that when Paola approached him, it was not for such purposes.

Still, he'd never imagined that he'd witness such a sight.

And he still does not.

There is no maiden dying on bare sheets, in fact, there is no maiden there at all. That's a relief, and yet, the sight that welcomes him is almost worse, in a way – it strangles Leonardo's breath and stills his steps for a moment, as he steps in.

Dracula is sitting, resplendent in his fine clothes and capes, on an armchair by the window – a very classical vision of a vampire, certainly. And Desmond is on the floor at his feet, leaning onto the vampire lord's knees. Unconscious – or asleep? – he sits listless, tails of his coat spread out about him, the sheath of his sword lying over one heeled foot. Dracula is holding the man's right hand, examining the wrist gently – there, Leonardo can see the twin puncture wounds of a vampire bite.

Oh, if only he could _draw_ , if only he could paint! He would make this into a painting, the terrible, tempting warning against the allure of vampires.

Then Leonardo catches himself and the realisation that Desmond is unconscious, and Dracula is holding his bitten wrist makes his blood run cold.

"I see you have made your decision, young Maestro," the vampire says, rubbing his thumb over the two wounds tenderly. "Thank you, Paola, for your hospitality. It has been more than graceful."

"My lord," the vampiress says, curtseying and looking at him with interest. "I assume it is no longer needed, then?"

"No, I believe we are done here," Dracula agrees, not looking away from Desmond's hand. "You have my thanks."

"It was my pleasure, my lord," Paola says, waiting for a moment and then backing away from the room at the older vampire's unspoken dismissal. If she finds anything objectionable with what Dracula is doing, she never showed it, never hesitated.

And then Leonardo is left alone with Dracula and his unconscious attendant.

He cannot help but ask, his heart pounding in his chest, "Is – is he –?"

"He drank himself unconscious," Dracula answers, looking down on Desmond. "Something he saw… upset him, and his reaction to it was to try and drink the memory away. Which failed quite splendidly, I might add."

It's only then Leonardo sees the bottles and glasses, and thinks, ah. Desmond was the human they had been getting drunk? "Um," he says, uncertain, looking between Dracula and Desmond. "If this is a bad time…?"

Dracula looks up, his red eyes glinting with candle light. Then he hums and gathers a length of bandage, to wrap gently around Desmond's wrist. "It's an excellent time," he says. "I find I grow tired of Florence. Desmond would have me stay for longer, but I believe staying will not benefit either of us, anymore. Not if it will continue to distress him. If you are coming with us and ready to go, Maestro… then this is a good time."

"I – yes, that's why I came. I came to accept your proposal," Leonardo says, nodding. Why does he call him that, why Maestro? Leonado has not been master of anything in his life. "Should we wait for Desmond to…?"

"It is his own fault, for drinking so much. I told him to stop," Dracula hums, amused, and ties the bandage up, sealing the bite wound away. "But he never listens to me, so. On his own head be it."

Leonardo swallows as Dracula moves, leaning forward. For a split of a second it looks like he might push Desmond's hood back and bite his neck, he's looming over him just so… but he doesn't. Instead Dracula gathers his human from the floor, lifting him as though he weighs nothing, one arm under Desmond's knees and other around his back.

For all his alluring grace and trickery, Desmond looks vulnerable in his white and red, against Dracula's black clothes.

"I assume you have packed your belongings?" Dracula asks, casting a look at the bags Leonardo have.

Leonardo nods. "I wasn't sure, but… you did say I had a day to decide. Day has passed," he says. And he has decided – and after seeing Desmond like this, how could he go round that decision?

Dracula nods, and then turns the hand holding onto Desmond's legs, drawing in the air with his nails. There is a twist of magic and then the shrill sound of glass rubbing against glass, as the air itself bends to Dracula's will, and with fractures, a portal to another place opens.

"Oh?" Leonardo murmurs and leans in, despite his unease. "That is – I think I have heard of this. It is a mirror, yes?"

"Seeing Mirror, one of the last ones made by the Carpathian scrying monks," Dracula says. "I had it set on myself, before we departed the castle, and so can use it's gaze to draw a portal back."

With that said, he steps through. Leonardo clutches onto his bags and then glances around the room, quick and nervous. There is only one bed there – but it does not look as though anyone had slept in it. Hm.

Lifting his bags, Leonardo steps through the portal. He can see the room beyond through it, so he expects the stone floors and walls and their grand design, he expects the dark. He doesn't expect the _cold_.

"It's freezing in here," he murmurs, shocked by how cold it is.

"The castle is on a mountaintop – it does get rather cold," Dracula admits, looking down on still sleeping Desmond, even as he closes the portal with one negligent wave of his hand. "It's far past the time to change that. Come, Maestro, I will show you a room where you may stay, and set Desmond down to rest. Then I believe it is time I bring this castle back into order."

* * *

 

What bringing the _castle into order_ means, Leonardo doesn't dare to guess – but an hour after he's been shown his room, the castle does grow warmer. When he peers into the corridor, he finds the previously dark candle holders lit with strange lights that are not candles, and there is a gentle, warm wind blowing from the rafters, filling the air with warmth. Some sort of vampiric spell, which lets Dracula heat the castle without the use of fireplaces?

Desmond sleeps through it – in Leonardo's bed. Because that is where Dracula had left him, in Leonardo's new bed, saying, "I haven't the faintest notion where he sleeps in the castle, if he even has a select place. Mind that he doesn't throw up and drown on his own bile, will you, Maestro?" Which was not very conducive to the rather sensual narrative building itself in Leonardo's head.

Desmond looks ethereal on the bed, it's hard to look away from him. Long, lean, dressed in arguably feminine coat that pinches at the waist and gives him the illusion of skirts when seen from behind or the side… He looks like one of those sensationalist paintings, made with the thinnest veil of heavenly euphoria. A maiden, vulnerable to the viewer's eye, and yet… Desmond is unarguably male.

Leonardo very carefully keeps his distance – feeling entirely presumptuous just being in Desmond's presence, like this. Yet he has his things to unpack, his books, his tools… and it is his room, supposedly.

"What am I doing," Leonardo murmurs, wishing vaguely that he had a god to pray to for answers. Not that he thinks they would be answered anyway, but perhaps it would make him feel more settled. All of this is making him feel as though he's coming apart from the inside. And Desmond keeps making noises in his sleep, it's almost indecent.

Though what is indecency for heathens? That is what they are, surely, heathens…

He concentrates on lining up his books just so on top of the cabinet, taking his time and trying to not let his thoughts circle too deeply into forbidden territory. When Desmond wakes, he isn't sure – by the time he notices, the man is already sitting up on the bed.

"We're in the castle?" the man asks, his voice coming out as a _groan_ , it's almost _vulgar_. "Oh, god, what did he do now?"

"Er," Leonardo says, almost dropping his books. "I'm – he brought us here. I believe he said that Florence was no longer agreeing with him."

Desmond stares at him for a moment – the coat is rumpled and the hood is down, it's the first time Leonardo has seen his hair. It's shorter than he realised, short and a little curly. It makes his fingers _itch_ for a touch.

"Right," Desmond says and draws a breath. "I'm going to go and kick his ass. This was not the plan."

"I'm – not sure that's wise," Leonardo says. "And if you don't mind me saying, you don't look so well."

"What's a little hangover here or there?" Desmond says and moves to get up. Then he wobbles, his ankle twisting under him, the heel giving out.

Leonardo makes an aborted, helpless move towards him as he falls on the bed, letting out a grunt. "I – think perhaps you should – rest for a moment longer. I can get you something to drink, if… if you tell me where?" he offers, awkward. "I haven't seen much of the castle yet, only this room and the way to it, really, so…"

Desmond groans, running his hands over his face. "Dracula sucks," he mutters. "What an asshole. There's probably a bathroom nearby – there's going to be a white tiny tub like thing there, with a faucet. The water from it is good to drink. One good thing about this Hell hole, there's bathrooms everywhere…"

Leonardo eyes him warily, but the man on his bed doesn't try to get up again immediately, so he dares to fetch an empty bottle from his bags. "I will see what I can find – I'll be right back."

There is indeed a bathroom nearby – right beside his room, in fact. It's pristine and _beautiful_ with white and blue Arabic tiles, a large bathtub and other porcelain things, the use of which Leonardo cannot tell, but which look to be of a very fine craftsmanship. There is also a small white tub there, hanging off the wall, with a silver faucet on it – turning the knobs at each side, Leonardo does indeed get crystal clear water from it.

He brings the water to Desmond, to find the man lying down, scratching at his hair. He looks like he's in pain, there's a sheen of sweat on his neck – he looks very _human_ , in his very human suffering.

"Here," Leonardo says, feeling utterly shamed for his earlier thoughts and musings, and hands him the bottle.

"Thank you," Desmond answers, and sips on the water, slowly, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. "When did he bring us here?"

"It was a few hours ago – it was near midnight in Florence, when we left."

"… Okay, thanks," Desmond says and drinks more water, before looking at him. "So, you decided to come."

"I – did, yes," Leonardo says. So far, it is the worst best decision of his life, good God. "The castle is just as you said, though I really haven't seen much of it, yet."

"I'll show you around – later. Once I have talked with Dracula and found out what he's on about now," Desmond says and sighs. "Shouldn't have gotten distracted, stupid of me. Shouldn't have gotten drunk."

"He said you were… upset?" Leonardo says, hesitant. "Did something happen?"

The man doesn't answer immediately, looking at him thoughtfully, and then turning away. "No, not really," Desmond says, quiet, and tugs his hood up, to hide his eyes. "Thanks, for the water, and the… rest. This is your room, then?"

"I suppose so, yes?"

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," the Assassin nods and then stands up – slower and slightly steadier this time. "Don't go anywhere, alright? There are parts of the castle which are booby trapped, so you don't want to wander around too much. I'll show you around later, okay?"

"Yes, thank you," Leonardo says, "I'll look forward to it."

Desmond nods and hands him the bottle back. "I'm going to go find Dracula and hopefully talk sense into him."

"He seemed fairly sensible to me," Leonardo says quietly, accepting the bottle awkwardly. "He said he intended to bring the castle into order, it seemed… perfectly reasonable." For a vampire…

"Okay, now I am _really_ worried," Desmond says with a snort, tugging at his coat to straighten the lapels. "I'll see you later, Leonardo. Oh, and welcome to Dracula's castle – it's going to be Hell of a ride from here on out."

"… thank you," Leonardo says, faintly. Desmond smiles and then heads to the door, his stride growing firmer as he goes – a moment later, Leonardo is alone, hugging the bottle Desmond had drank from, in a room that's about as big as his house. He somehow hadn't even realised how big the room is, but now that he's alone in it… it seems far too big.

Oh, goodness. "What am I doing?" Leonardo whispers weakly and sets the bottle down. "What have I gotten myself into? What am I going to do?"

No one answers. There's no one else there now.

That, at least, is nothing new.


	18. Chapter 18

Dracula walks past the coffins, running his hands over them. It must have been Igor's work. When he'd sealed the castle last, he'd not really looked into how it was sealed – only that it was, and that his servants were sent away. Most of them had crawled into the earth of the castle, which would preserve them, others had been sent to Hell – some had simply disappeared. Then, he had not cared where. He and Lisa were leaving, to start a life among humans – in truth, he'd entertained the idea of never returning, then.

His careless dismissal had done much damage to his servants – he can tell, many of them were simply destroyed by the command. The ones sent to Hell, if they still survived, would be different and perhaps no longer loyal. But here, some of his servants lie, preserved. Not all of them, not even most of them. The skeletons, the ghouls and zombies would have gone to ground, he would have to see whatever remained of them later – but here…

His werewolves, his animated armours, his Discus Lords, some of the demons – Blue Fang, Amduscias, Lilith... Either they had chosen not to go to Hell, or Igor had persuaded them to remain, whichever it is, they are all here, sleeping, waiting for his call. They've been cared for, he can see the passing of the Grave Kkeepers, their trails on the floor – he had not ordered such maintenance, that must be Igor as well. Before he might have lashed out for such impudence on his servant's part, but…

Where is Igor now? Where is the Creature? They certainly would not have gone to Hell, and for Igor to have done this, he must have been the last to lay down to rest – if he had…

"Rise," Dracula murmurs, resting his hand on Lilith's casket. "Rise, my loyal servants – I call upon you once more, awaken, and heed to me. _Rise_."

The order washes through the room like a flash fire, spreading over the floors, the caskets. It would awaken the entire catacombs – that is the power of the oaths made, their vows to him. Loyalty in his castle ran deeper than death. Loyalty runs _with_ Death.

"Master," a graveyard voice murmurs, and the air is split in whirl of chaos grey and black. Around the catacombs, coffins begin opening – soon, the earth would open too, parting way for the dead to rise. "You have risen from your mourning?"

"Never," Dracula says, looking up as the reaper appears, splitting its way through the veil of chaos and reality with its scythe, floating in the air in a display of ragged cloth and bone. "But I have sat around idle for long enough, and the castle may yet have a new purpose. And it needs maintenance."

"Maintenance only?" Death asks, floating down and forming itself legs, to step on the bare dirt floor, a rasp of bone against ground, turning the fertile soil into dead sand. "Not – protection? Not death and suffering? Not vengeance? Did you not swear to end all humanity?"

Dracula looks at him and then turns his eyes away, looking around the chamber. Lilith is pushing her coffin open and looking at him – Blue Fang is already up, crawling to him on all fours, breathing hot, holy light from unholy mouth. "Master," the beast growls, nudging at his knee with his forehead. "You are back…"

"I am back," Dracula agrees, resting his hand on the demon's head. "And there are plans to be made – there will be death, yet, my friend," he says to the reaper. "But perhaps not in such quantities. You must know the thought was but folly."

"I wouldn't think to question your wisdom," Death says, but grinning. He is always grinning. "But it did seem rather overzealous. What plan you now, then, if not death?"

"Something worse, perhaps. Change," Dracula mutters and shakes his head. "Can you go to Hell and call upon my servants, my friend? This castle has sat empty long enough."

"Of course, with pleasure," Death says and bows, clasping one bony hand over its fleshless chest. "Whatever you wish."

"Go then," Dracula orders and waves the reaper away. With Death gone, he turns his eyes down, to Lilith, who is slithering out of her tomb and falling to her knees before him, wings crumpled from her rest. "Find Igor for me, Lilith – be wary of the outside. We are on the mountaintop, the winds will not be pleasant. Go."

She goes without saying a word, spreading out her wings with an ecstatic sigh and then jumping to flight, disappearing into the darkness above. Dracula turns to the others. Amduscias is rising slowly, groaning as he lifts his heavy horse head. Around them, the space is beginning to fill with the rising of other, lesser creatures – the Grave Keepers are rising too, to attend to their duties.

"Stretch your legs, regain your strength," Dracula says, waving to them. "And then return to your posts. Kill no one and nothing – there are two humans in the castle, they are not to be harmed."

"Humans, master?" Blue Fangs asks. "New servants?"

"Yes," the vampire lord agrees. "They are mine and not to be harassed. Now go – go mind your duties."

He moves on from the chamber, to the next one, to repeat the orders to the servants rising there. At its peak, the castle boasted hundreds of servants of varying shape and form – most of them lesser undead and ghouls, but they had their purpose. Of them, only a fraction remains now. It would be enough to manage the castle's maintenance again – but not enough to defend it, should it be attacked.

Dracula considers the wretched, decaying zombies rising from the ground of the Pit and wonders if he ought to call upon Hector and Isaac sooner rather than later – they need maintenance, and though he is a deft hand in raising the dead… he's no Devil Forgemaster.

"Clean yourselves up and return to your tasks," he orders, casting a look at the track of dirt one of them leaves behind. "Mind the mess you're making."

It is then he senses the audience he has, and looks up. He's been watched over by Desmond long enough to recognize his gaze – and there the human is, sitting on a crumbling ledge above him, watching. "Feeling better, then?" Dracula asks, sending the zombies off with a wave of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Desmond asks, sounding wary.

"I am minding my castle, at long last. I'd think you'd be happy," Dracula comments. "I am in the process of waking my servants to their duties. This includes kitchen service – you won't have to cook for yourself again.

"If the cook is one of those guys, I'd rather keep on doing it myself, thanks," Desmond says, his expression still a little uncertain. "I thought we were going to stay in Florence for a bit longer."

"You thought – I didn't agree to it," Dracula says and turns away. "The city no longer agreed with me."

"It didn't agree with you in the first place, but you stayed," the Assassin says and then drops down, flipping in air as he does and then landing at a crouch, absorbing the impact. He takes a moment to look at Dracula before speaking. "There's this thing called getting ahead of ourselves."

"Excuse me?" Dracula asks, coolly.

"You're feeling better, right? A bit more like yourself, a bit more active," Desmond says and steps forward – and around a smear left on the floor by a departing zombie. "So, getting right back into the swing of things, right? You're going to wear yourself out if you try too much too soon."

Dracula narrows his eyes. "So now I _should_ sit around and do nothing?" he demands. "Haven't you tried to make me more active since the first time we met?"

"Within a reasonable limit," Desmond comment. "I didn't exactly force you to run a marathon of social activity. And that was for a reason."

"Tch," Dracula answers and turns to continue away. "I can do this much. The castle needs maintenance – and the waking of my servants is hardly a difficult task."

"Still. I wouldn't want you to push yourself," Desmond says, falling into step with him. "That happens a lot, with people in mourning. They get up, feeling better and all energised, and they jump right back into work – and then they burn out."

"I have _accepted_ my loss, what more do you want?" Dracula demands.

The human peers at him from under his hood. "Well, for one, not to kidnap me again," he comments then. "I still had things to do in Florence."

"Florence was making you feel miserable."

"No, it wasn't."

"Desmond, you cried in my lap," Dracula says wryly.

"Yeah, well, crying is healthy and all. Getting it all out there," Desmond mutters. "I was figuring it out, and I still had stuff to do with the Assassins. And, you know, facing my issues, dealing with them, being all healthy and shit. Can't do that here, now can I?"

Dracula presses his lips together and then glances at the human as they walk through the catacombs. He looks miserable. "I can send you back, if you wish," Dracula says finally, looking away.

"And leave you alone with this stuff?" Desmond mutters and waves after the zombies. "No way. You're waking up zombies and you brought _Leonardo_ here – I am not leaving with all this going on."

Dracula carefully hides the spark of a rather vindictive satisfaction he feels. "Later then, perhaps," he says and lifts his head. "I can sense you, Igor. Come out."

"Igor – _seriously_?" Desmond murmurs, even as the imp steps forth from the shadows, bowing as he approaches.

"Master – you are awake once more. I am overjoyed," the little hunchbacked creature says. "How may I serve you?"

"Where is the Creature?" Dracula asks.

"He sleeps in the Alchemy Laboratory," Igor says, still keeping his eyes low. "In a preservative solution."

"Hm. Good," Dracula decides. "Wake him and then take up your regular duties. Clean the castle up, see to the maintenance of its systems – stock the pantry and find us a cook. A _clean_ one," he adds with a sigh. "We have humans in the castle, and they require feeding."

Igor looks at Desmond, who rests his hands at his hips, looking back curiously. Then the imp bows his head. "Of course," he says. "If that is all, my lord, I will get right to it."

"Good. I will see you in twenty four hours for your report on the castle's status."

"Of course, my lord."

Dracula looks after the imp, as Igor heads back into the shadows, and then turns to Desmond. "There. One of your criticisms about the castle was how empty it is, yes? It is empty no longer."

"Yeah, now it's filled with your servants, all duty-bound to agree with you and please you," Desmond agrees. "Because that's a healthy company to keep."

Dracula narrows his eyes. "You're not pleased with anything, are you?"

"Just playing the devil's advocate here. _Your_ advocate, actually, now that I think about it," Desmond says and arches his brows. "I mean, it's probably nice, surrounding yourself with people who agree with you, but it's not good for you. Especially when you're depressed. What you need is friends who will support you and tell it to you straight when you're doing something stupid… not servants who think everything you do is just the best idea ever."

Dracula scowls at him. "For that I have you, don't I?"

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it with a sigh. "Yes," he says slowly. "You do. But I don't know you that well, you know. All I know is the depressed version of you."

"Then _learn_ ," Dracula orders him, growing irritated. "You want to be my confidante, then be it. Speak to my servants, and learn my ways, and commit to the duty you've taken up."

Desmond says nothing for a moment folding his arms and just looking at him. "This is the point where I would flip you the bird and walk away," he comments slowly. "Except now it will leave you surrounded by the yes men, so I won't. But fuck you, and how about _no, I am not your servant?_ "

Dracula bares his teeth and Desmond does the same – grinning at him toothily and sharply. "I can be either your friend or your servant – and I am _not_ going to be your servant," Desmond says. "And hell, being your friend is already _work_. This is a fucked up relationship on so many levels, don't fuck it up further."

"Then _what_?" Dracula demands. "What do you want me to do, precisely?"

"I – don't know!" the human admits, sounding a little frustrated. "Be careful. Don't fall into bad habits. Self-reflect, maybe? Be better. Take care of yourself. That includes the company you keep. Differences of opinion are healthy. I don't know," he sighs. "You've come so far, I don't want to see you mess it up."

Dracula opens his mouth to say something along the lines, _so it is my fault now?_ He doesn't, though, falling awkwardly silent and actually considering the words. "Differences of opinion," he says.

"In _moderation_ ," Desmond says quickly. "I don't mean picking fights, just… having a discussion, having differences of opinion, trying to understand where those opinions come from instead of instantly lashing out on everyone who disagrees with you. Which, frankly, I think comes too easily for you at times. Which probably comes from the fact that apparently most of the time you're surrounded by undead servants," he adds, under his breath.

Dracula exhales long at that, shaking his head and looks away – doing as he's told, and self-reflecting. "Lisa disagreed with me constantly," he says.

"And she was probably amazing and taught you a lot," Desmond says sympathetically. "But she's gone. I'm sorry."

Dracula shakes his head. "Adrian disagreed with me once," he says and lowers his gaze. "And I cut him down for it."

Desmond says nothing to that, hesitating, and Dracula closes his eyes.

Hector would agree with him, should he call for the man. Hector is… far too agreeable a personality. He bends easily to strength of character. Isaac would serve him, gladly, and do his bidding – but he would hold onto his own opinions. Unfortunately, those opinions line far too much with his own. Perhaps, in time and with experiences both, the two humans would and could change their ways – perhaps…

Dracula looks at Desmond, considering him. Rare is the individual who stands up to him to his face. Desmond and Adrian are the only ones who have dared, who still live. Even other vampires rather go around his back and scheme behind the scenes, than face him fully. In that Desmond, so much weaker than him, is wholly unique. Perhaps, Desmond could do what he had done to Dracula, to others – perhaps meeting a man like Desmond mind show Hector and Isaac something… better than they have seen of humanity, so far.

Perhaps…

"Will you do something for me?" Dracula asks.

"That depends on what you want me to do," Desmond says.

"Go wake up my son," Dracula says. "Tell him everything."

Desmond stands up straighter at that, going wary. "I thought he had to sleep longer to recover."

"He does," Dracula agrees. "He won't be fully recovered in quite some time, but he's not so weak as to not waken, not understand. Tell him everything – not right now, I need you here now, but… eventually, when you think the time is right."

Desmond considers him quietly for a moment. "You will have to give me the means to get to Gresit, then," he says. "I need to be able to go there without needing to ask you for help – I need to be able to do it without you knowing."

Dracula considers that and then nods. Desmond has a point. "Very well. I will set up a portal between here and the catacombs of Gresit," he says. "I will show you how to use it, once it is done."

The human nods slowly. "Alright, thank you," he says. "I'll do it, then – if it comes to it, before his supposed prophesied awakening happens."

"I can… also set such a portal to Florence," Dracula says and looks away. "If you wish it. Though there are no such catacombs in Florence, the chambers Leonardo showed us should do, yes?"

"Yes, that… would be great, thank you. And speaking of Leonardo," Desmond says. "You just – brought him along, huh?"

"He agreed to my proposal," Dracula says calmly. "It was his choice."

"You didn't give him much in a way of orientation, though, huh? Also, what happened to his stuff – he had hundreds of books in his house, did you bring those?"

Dracula frowns. "I assumed he brought with him what he needed," he says. "I didn't see the need to question him on it."

"Good grief – most people can't just pack up their entire house in a day and go, Dracula," the Assassin says with a sigh. "We can only carry so much on us, most of the time – Leonardo probably brought everything he could and was then forced to leave the rest. You should've asked."

Dracula sighs, shaking his head. "You wear on my patience, human – he will have access to my collections, which are far more extensive than _his_. He will want for nothing."

"That doesn't mean he probably wouldn't want his own things, too," Desmond points out. "Make the portal to his house, okay? That way we can pick up his things."

"Fine," Dracula says, waving a hand. "Have it your way."

"Thank you, I _will_ ," Desmond says. "And now I am going to show Leonardo around the castle."

"What, you will not tail me to see what else I am doing wrong?" Dracula demands with a scoff.

"I think I've given you enough to think over, for a start," Desmond says and pats him on the shoulder. "And honestly, I like him better."

Dracula narrows his eyes, and Desmond gives him a grin. "He doesn't give me a heart attack and hasn't kidnapped me _once_ ," Desmond points out. "Or tried to kill me, which is definitely a point in his favour. And I am pretty sure he's not after my blood, though who knows, seems to be a sign of affection around here…"

"Oh, be gone, Assassin, " Dracula says, shaking his head and turning away. "Show him to the library and the alchemy laboratory – but do not yet let him do anything in the latter. There are still experiments there, which might prove dangerous to him. The library he can have a free reign of."

"Got it," Desmond says, grinning as he turns to leave. Then he stops and looks over his shoulder. "You know, you are getting better – and not all of that is my doing," he says. "It's a good look on you. I know I talk a lot of shit, but… that's just because I worry. You're doing good, you're getting there."

Dracula hesitates for a moment and then nods. "Thank you," he says and waits until Desmond has left before sighing. It's something, he supposes. He doesn't _feel_ much better, he still feels hollowed out, a skeleton carved of all of its flesh, but… perhaps, he is getting better, at that. Before now he has not craved company, so – that is a sure sign of something.

Lifting his chin and then continuing on his way out of the catacombs, Dracula makes his choice. He would call upon Hector and Isaac, see if they would choose to serve him of their own volition. And perhaps, one day, they would even question him. Not at first, no, he doubts it will happen anytime soon. But with enough time – and enough proximity to the catalyst of change that is Desmond Miles… such things could come to pass.

Stranger things have happened, in Dracula's Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this part, though I do have handful of oneshot follow ups planned, to cover different plot lines (which, if I wrote them as chapters would take bloody forever). So yeah, to be continued in sequels, hopefully. This part was mostly just Desmond & Dracula friendship and Dracula's recovery from Lisa's death, and Dracula is on his way there, so... yeah.
> 
> To Be Continued.

**Author's Note:**

> [Look at this beautiful art by Viviena.](https://viviena.tumblr.com/post/186094948338/)   
>  [And also this great art by Viviena.](https://viviena.tumblr.com/post/186219021053/)


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